The train stops for a minute and a half. The usual hustle and bustle of this short period seem muted at the station today. Then, within two or four minutes of the train leaving, the station area eerily empties of passengers. Those who disembark hurry out of the gate without looking around – it's also quite remarkable that so many people buy tickets and leave the station through the main gate. A quick glance around reveals that the pull of home hasn't suddenly increased for everyone; the passengers are in such a hurry to leave the station area. A few disreputable-looking men, puffing on beedi cigarettes, stand in a completely uninhibited manner, observing the passengers with detachment, even asking a few for their names. As the station empties, their eyes fall on the two men. The middle-aged, bent man turns his face away and says, "Damn it, let him go." His raggedly dressed, younger companion, with a red face, takes a couple more puffs and, chewing on the betel leaf, suddenly spits, raises his hand, and points his finger, calling out to the two men, "Hey! Listen. No one is standing on the road either." Just beyond the station is the Tebhasta intersection, and only a couple of shops are lit; the others are closed. The seed shop's light is the brightest; usually, the shop is almost full of people at this time, but today it's completely deserted. Under the huge banyan tree, two farmers are sitting, arranging some items, but no one seems interested in asking about the prices of beans and eggplants today. The two men's eyes blink like the station lights. They look around. In the blink of an eye, the way the unfamiliar station empties of passengers seems like magic to them. The presence of a group of armed sepoys makes the station look unfamiliar to them. This scene is not unfamiliar to them. They heard the details of what happened here yesterday on the train. They were expecting a scene like this. Although they arrived on time, it's almost evening, and the station's oil lamps are lit before they are. Only a few passengers wait for the train on the platform, apprehensive and silent.

Even deeper into the night, the train usually draws a larger crowd of passengers at this station. Today, a group of sepoys has filled the platform with a lack of passengers. Clutching the child to her chest, Anna says in a choked voice, "You'll see, won't you? There's been a commotion, a strike, or else it'll be a theater, won't it? Don't stand there gaping, let's go." Dibakar, however, neither sees nor hears. He continues to shuffle along, dragging the doll in his arm and the tied sack in his hand, with Anna beside him. The train is an hour late. "See what I'm saying?" Three men then come and stand in front of them. "Do you have tickets?" They seem a little startled to hear that they are passengers to Chhotobakulpur. The betel-nut boys then spit and pick a little betel to chew. Yesterday's commotion had caused some bloodshed on the platform, as if they want to smear the platform with the stain of that blood using the betel nut. Dibakar also loves betel nut; he bought a full four-paise one on the way. Unwrapping the paper packet, he stuffs one into his mouth. Perhaps because of standing so close to the people, the betel nut tastes a little bitter to him. Behind their heads, in the distance, the solitary light of the factory, high up in the sky, catches his eye, hanging as if suspended in the dark sky without support. The strike at that factory was the reason for yesterday's commotion at the station. When they were taking the three leaders away in the train, several hundred workers came to snatch them back. Then shots were fired, and bloodshed occurred. Since hearing the details of the incident in the train, Dibakar's half-educated, half-laborer soul is in great distress. Next to it, two open bullock carts are lying with their mouths down, and a pair of thin and calm bullocks are lying on the ground nearby, yoking themselves. Usually, two or three horse-drawn carriages stand in front of the station, the horses as old as the carriages themselves. Fearing a fine, the poor carriage drivers haven't brought their carriages today. Dibakar, who has never been a gentleman to ride in a carriage to his in-laws' house, is riding in a horse-drawn carriage today—he has brought the money for this purpose, having pawned Anna's silver jewelry. They knew it would be night by the time they reached Chhotobakulpur, but they set out anyway, hoping for the comfort of a horse-drawn carriage to cover the three miles at night with a child. Dibakar says indifferently, "I came without knowing the news, sir."

They have relatives there, they need to go.

They aren't free, they're alive. Bente asks, will you go to Chhotobakulpur at night? Do you know the news from there?

All four of them stare down the road. The road to Chhotobakulpur takes a turn a little further on, but it's not visible yet—it seems like the path is lost in the dangerous darkness. The two car owners appear. In the dim light, one seems like an old banyan tree and the other seems to have broken through the shop's fence and come closer. Hearing this, they both shake their heads. Oh man, who will go to Chhotobakulpur at night? The army police have surrounded the village, there's a proper fight going on. They don't have any hurry, there's no competition in the bullock cart. Slowly and lazily, they ask where Dibakor will go. Bente says, oh man, I see you're talking nonsense, Babu, where will poor people get words? Now the only hope is the bullock cart. Okay, we'll go to Chhotobakulpur. "Hey, driver!" Dibakor calls. He takes out two tickets from his shirt pocket and shows them. "Here they are. Chhotobakulpur. Where will you go?" In the Manik Rachanasamgrah area, there are dense settlements, villages clinging to each other with big houses, yet there's almost no one on the road at this hour of the evening. The path of the crippled person has become unfamiliar and mysterious. People cross from village to village on this path, but today it seems everyone needs to walk a long way all around. Suddenly, someone might come out of the darkness by the roadside, walk a few steps with heavy footsteps, and then disappear back into the darkness by the roadside. The occasional, sporadic movement of just one or two people makes the loneliness and silence even more unusual. The torchlight stays on Anna's face until the car goes behind the trees and houses, as if trying to witness the innocent, pure girl who is going as a train passenger in the car for as long as possible. Holding the child in her lap with her left hand, she pushes Dibakor back with her right hand, taking the lead herself. "Isn't he there yet or did he go ahead? If he wants to go, let's go with him, I'll walk the rest of the way. The fare will be fair." "Oh, you men are afraid!" Anna says in a sweet voice, "The child and the girl are going in the cart, you men are afraid!" Ram remains silent.

He is old, and lacks courage. Gagan Ghosh says they can only go as far as Kamaltala. So be it. Even if they let him down beyond the Kamaltala border, he can still walk almost half a mile. It's much better than walking the full one and a half miles. Anna climbs into a cart with bullocks harnessed to it; this exertion is her habit. Gagan's cart is rickety, and the thin, old bullocks refuse to move a single step unless constantly urged on with the whip. Anna eagerly inquires about the news of Chhotobakulpur, but she doesn't expect to hear about her father and brothers before reaching the village. She learns a more detailed account of the general situation in the village and much new news from Gagan. From a distance, they had heard that the condition of Chhotobakulpur was deplorable, and the already meager life of the village had been completely shattered by a severe blow. Gagan says it's not quite like that. In the beginning, there was a great deal of oppression within the village, but then the people of the village banded together and are now firmly entrenched, so much so that neither the Choudhuris nor the Ghosh family, with at least two dozen men, dares to enter the village. Gagan replies, "The station master's daughters will go to Kamaltala." Ram says, "Who makes such a fuss at night? What are you saying, Ghosh's man?" Once Gagan starts talking, he can't be stopped. Amidst the strange sounds of the bullocks being goaded with the whip, he describes the situation all around, and according to him, the Kali Yuga is indeed coming to an end. All the signs indicate this. Otherwise, would there be such a war between the king and his subjects? The cart moves along, making quite a noise on the dark, quiet road. Occasionally, the light of a torch falls on the cart from the eviction notices of houses along the road, and a grave voice asks, "Who is going? Where are you going? I am a sinner of Kali, I will die in this battle. My sons will establish a new era in Chhotobakulpur."

Meanwhile, Tipu has gone to his in-laws' house—into the depths of his thoughts. It's not an illness, it's death by starvation. He lives in Howrah, working as a laborer in the Ghanshyam-Bettun factory. He heard the commotion and his wife started crying that her father and brothers had not died, they were alive. So he thought, what if the factory strike isn't resolved in two or ten days, considering the times? He would take his wife and see what the matter was at his in-laws' house. Should he go further to Chhotobakulpur?—Gagan asks for permission, as if the elders have forbidden him to go?—"Come on, let's go, I'll take you along."

How can you just drop me off in the middle of the road like that? He'll recognize me, or if he doesn't, he will. If he doesn't recognize those he's associated with, who will he recognize? Can you prove that you are indeed Diwakar Das, Majur Khatu, coming to your in-laws' house, with no ulterior motive? Anna, happily expressing her gratitude, says, "Thank God for your kindness, otherwise, your new car would have been wrecked, and you'd be a broken bullock." Diwakar respectfully and clearly explains the reason and details of their arrival. They don't seem to appreciate his explanation, perhaps because he doesn't cry and wail, or because he doesn't crumble and fall at their feet in fear. The man in the long coat points and says, "Hey! What's going on here?" "Quiet, you fool, we can't have secret consultations here." Anna says, "Call ten farmers from the village, my father knows two or four of them, I'm the village girl." Soon, seven or eight people surround the car. The middle-aged, stout man, probably the leader of the group, adjusts his cap and asks in a serious voice, "Where are you coming from?" The sixteen or seventeen-year-old volunteer, a strong boy, laughs loudly. The middle-aged man in the long coat, threatened, stops him, coughing violently. The situation is getting out of hand. Gagan scratches his head, looking at the commotion. "What's in the bag? Bombs? Guns?" Anna whispers to Diwakar, "The villagers are getting scared, you know? How will you prove it? You didn't bring any witnesses. Just tell them. Your father's name? Where you live? What you do? Why are you here?" Gagan says, "Passenger of the institution's terrain vehicle, sir. My name is Diwakar Das. Shut up! Who asked you? Your name?" Anna's child has defecated on the road a couple of times, and Anna had kept the dirty, smelly bundle inside the bag. As they stop, the investigator gets dirty. Angered by the smell and touch, he kicks the bag as if he's crazy, as if to shoot the bag. As a result, some of the liquid substance sticks to his feet, and a little bit even gets on his gun. Three paans were left, and they went into the mouths of three people. While chewing the paan, one of them, under the light of a lantern, glances at the folded paper inside the paan and is shocked as if by an electric shock.

He carefully smooths out the paper and stares at the large, bold headline – 'To the Struggling Heroes of Chhotobakulpur'. The fishermen fall silent at the threat, and the child starts crying in protest. Turning away from them, Anna listens to their comments and advice as she tries to calm the boy. Suddenly, the arrival of the bullock cart creates a serious and complex situation, leaving the people quite embarrassed and somewhat confused. Looking at the well-dressed appearance of the companions and listening to their conversation, it's impossible to tell that they are anything other than truly innocent, ordinary, poor agricultural laborers; yet, that very fact becomes the cause of great suspicion. Has any timid, insignificant small-time crook ever tried to enter the whirlwind that has been raging in Chhotobakulpur for days, and that too after learning of the trouble? Where would such a person get the courage? Even more significant, even more suspicious, is the fact that they remain completely unfazed, without a trace of fear or anxiety, despite the abundance of rifles and guns all around. Before his words can escape, two of them grab Dibakar and pull him down. Overwhelmed with enthusiasm or excitement, one of them drops the earthen pot, shattering it, and half of the water spills out, splashing the six or seven fishermen. They roar in anger, "If you had only told us, Babu, if you had only warned the poor people!" The angry young man now picks up the overturned basket, unfolds the folds of the torn sack, and searches for Gagan and Dibakar. He finds a betel leaf packet in Dibakar's shirt pocket. One of them says in a low voice, "Surely, some dangerous person has come in disguise." Another says, "Let's search him." "Oh, Dibakar Das," says a serious man, "didn't I tell you to eat at the factory? When have the coolie laborers' wives ever eaten hilsa fish?" "Five or six hilsa fish are special." The short, thin man with long hair, wearing a turban and a boyish face, says, "No problem, there's no problem. You will be allowed to leave as soon as we find out who you are and what you have come for." After a long pause, the man orders, "Hey! Get down with the goods. Make a list of everything so that it can be known, Babu?" "Do we have a ban on eating hilsa fish, Babu?"

Angered by the insult to his caste, he roared, "Shut up, you fool, this is a joke, isn't it? Well, get ready. Let me ask you something. Do you forbid going to the village? Have you eaten one hundred and forty-four rotis?" Dibakar inquires. "The passenger from Chhotobakulpur is number 279, right? Indeed. A dangerous passenger! Although crushed and smeared with lime and betel leaf juice, he still managed to crawl forward. As he crawls, his eyes roll up into his head. Still, they sigh with relief. And they won't have to beat him in vain, they won't have to be tormented by unwarranted suspicions, irrefutable proof has been found in the palm of their hand. This time the conspiracy will be exposed. In the excitement of the mysterious discovery, his voice trembles, "It's been found! The passenger has been found, don't pretend. Now tell me your real name, you scoundrel." Dibakar and Anna stare at each other's faces. "Why? Why would I do that? Didn't you think the betel leaf seller didn't wrap it? You bought the betel leaf and wrapped the passenger in it, didn't you? Where would I get this passenger? Approximately 280 words.

The threatening, scowling face listens silently, as it has always listened to his father and grandfather, but from time to time, it seems to flash, his eyes flash. It's frightening to see. But before telling the story, clear up one doubt. The man is a peasant, he is poor, what kind of mood does he have? He has no land, no food or clothing, no comfort or health, he is not even considered a human being by the government, the owner of the country, let alone by the village owner, the landlord, or the market government, where would he get such a fashionable, expensive thing as a mood? Without some wealth, culture, comfort, luxury, influence, in other words, the right to throw tantrums at people, one cannot have a mood—it is an ingredient of happiness. Tea and fried eggs had arrived for the two of them, Manoranjon silently fills his mouth with fried eggs from two plates for entertainment. Once he was a great Congressman, nowadays he has become a complete peasant. It was a great pleasure to see him after a long time. With voiceless hunger, he can so easily create intimacy in the blink of an eye. Perhaps that is the reason for becoming a peasant. Understanding this, Manoranjon smiles gently. "Well, call it anger, call it a hot head. If there is nothing to go on, can anyone extract hatred, anger, all this?" He is not skilled at telling stories.

I have to arrange and organize the story in my mind: the taste of experience certainly comes to entertain. A strong man like Rakhalbabu, when happy, might cut his throat, and in a way, he scares Bhairab inside, making him somewhat fearful, as everyone knows. His mood is no secret; he has been making his acquaintance in various ways for a long time. The blood rushes to his head, and in that state, he finishes off a scoundrel himself, saying, "Looking at your face reminds me of Bhairab." He looks at people in such a way that they are embarrassed. There might be a little hesitation. Otherwise, he farms his share. He doesn't feel embarrassed at all. But who is Bhairab? A farmer from Lakshmipur. Hearing the strange story of his mood—is he a poor farmer? Bhairab has even proven that he can kill a Darogababu. A villager falsely accused him of theft, and the Darogababu came to investigate. He was digesting the threats and a few scuffles as usual, but suddenly, he didn't like a bad joke the Darogababu made, and he slapped him hard on the cheek! Who could imagine that the one who tolerated the scuffles would also tolerate a bad joke, that his head would be messed up by it? The charge of theft was dismissed, but he had to go to jail for that offense. Once, while going to eat eggplant, he had a quarrel with Kanai over a spade, and when the quarrel escalated too much, it turned into a fight—suddenly, with a blow of a stick, he broke Kanai's head. Was he angry then too? With that stick, he couldn't stop at just one blow to the criminal Gobuta's head, and Gobuta died. This caused another round of jail time and a social uproar. There is danger with these people. When angry, he loses his senses, and even the consideration of good and bad disappears, and he doesn't care about living or dying. Therefore, no one easily messes with him, even for trivial reasons. So, a strong decision seems to be made. However much it seems that his mood is completely blind and useless, doing whatever he pleases, forgetting the world and society, it's probably not entirely true. He probably understands that people are afraid of him and don't easily go after him.

His relatives and neighbors tried their best to restrain him, but for some reason, he would suddenly, inexplicably, lose control. He was constantly at odds with the shopkeepers. His family members died one after another from beatings. He didn't pay much attention to it; he rarely showed any remorse, let alone anger. When he got angry, it meant he had reached his extreme limit. His wife, Kali, had a fever, probably from eating too much raw betel leaf the day before. Shambhu had gone to buy four paise worth of jaggery for his wife at the shop. It was crowded at the shop, with a few well-dressed men present. Shambhu frowned and told the shopkeeper, "Give me four paise worth of jaggery. She'll get a mouthful of ash if she doesn't get it. You're a Brahmin, aren't you? Behave like one. Don't be rude. Go and atone for your sins. Go to another room. You'll suffer in hell for ten lifetimes." He was doing penance for killing a cow, and his mood was spoiled by the shopkeeper's harsh words. He dipped his hand into the jaggery jar and threw a handful of jaggery at Shambhu's face. What happened next was inevitable for the poor, helpless farmer. But did he understand the account or his mood? Wasn't it just four paise? Weigh it yourself, if it's too much, take some back. Are you asking for alms? Bhairab wasn't in the mood to be pacified by just throwing the jaggery away. He glanced around and noticed the jaggery jar in front of him. Bhairab threw the jaggery at Shambhu's face, at the face of the man who had said, "You eat your jaggery." Bhairab's anger flared up instantly. "You've given less, Shambhu. Weigh it properly." "Go away, go away, I've given you more." Four paise worth of jaggery, eat it with the weight of jaggery. 282

Manik's literary works. Then one day, the commotion from Laxmipur began. It started with the villagers banding together to stop the shepherd's theft of paddy, but the matter eventually escalated. Because any oppression of the poor is terrifying, it can't be tolerated unless it's eradicated from the root. As people died in that area from the paddy theft, they became desperate and decided to take matters into their own hands, and Bhairab was present at the beginning of the consultation. He was enraged after hearing the details of the shepherd's misdeeds from the merchants and landlords, and he demanded loudly that, no, not only should the paddy theft be stopped, but the man should be hanged first, and then the paddy theft should be prevented. The old Bonmali threatened him, "Stop, Bhairab."

This is not a children's game. The villagers couldn't even imagine the havoc that would unfold to subdue them. The goons of the rakhal gathered and attacked neighborhood after neighborhood. Although the first attack was met with resistance, the villagers, ultimately fearing for their lives, banded together and drove them away. The police station is located in Laxmipur. In several neighborhoods, the villagers have taken such strong measures for self-defense that the rakhal's goons don't even dare to enter. What does it mean? Oppression is the root of evil. The oppressor harbors deep-seated terror. They break their own beliefs, their own values, their own rules and regulations – they turn against themselves. To crush everyone under their feet, they themselves erect principles, religion, laws, and ideals – only to break them themselves. They have no choice but to embrace this inner conflict; they are compelled to commit injustice. Just as an addict craves more and more intoxicants, they increasingly indulge in more violent and grotesque acts of injustice. Hitler committed countless atrocities, yet he achieved so little. These goons are of the same breed. The narrative pauses here, and Monoronjon suddenly asks: Why do you say that? Animalistic oppression is one thing, but why in front of her husband? This tendency was also observed in the drunken American soldiers. I can't think of any reason. He grumbled as he got up from the meeting. No one particularly minded. There's no shortage of reasons to keep him around. Perhaps it is because of him that there will be one or two unnecessary murders, he won't be able to keep his cool. After they leave, Kali remains silent for a while. A fire has caught in a nearby thatched roof, and the bloody, radiant form of the moonlit night is visible outside. Bhairab says in a soft voice, "Unlock the rope, son." Bhairab's house was somewhat isolated in the area. One day, a group of people entered the house and, after beating him, bound him tightly to a bed. The little boy was screaming loudly in Kali's lap. They dragged him away and tightly bound the boy to Bhairab's back with a rope. Then, in front of Bhairab's eyes, they took turns raping Kali, all seven of them. They didn't turn on the lights. It was moonlight. It was a poor man's small house, with a three-sided thatched roof and a torn mat bed, a few paces away from the post. Monoronjon thinks for a moment and says, "So what? Who knows what pleases you?"

The passenger on the Moke Dekheni Chotobakulpur train, in the grip of fear, began to untie Kali's bonds. The fear wasn't unfounded; they had lived together for so long, and he knew the man better than anyone. He had endured countless beatings for trivial reasons, and the marks were still visible on his body. In this state, he couldn't have imagined that Bhairab would be so calm today. The man would fly into a rage for the smallest reason, the epidemic had made him irascible, and if something triggered his anger, he would beat anyone within reach. How could he possibly handle such a terrifying situation tonight? As he untied the bonds, the disoriented, mad Bhairab, upon being freed, stumbled and fell to the floor, as if the brutal torments inflicted upon his wife, and the suffocation of the little boy who had died in their ropes, were still clinging to his body. He felt neither anger nor despair. Kali quickly lit the lamp. He only cried out after glancing at the boy, after hearing only his moaning until then. To earn some extra income, Bhairab would weave jute ropes at home, and they had no shortage of ropes for binding. They were disoriented and mad; they had tied the little boy tightly to his father with thin, woven jute ropes, leaving marks on his body and bruises on his neck. Only they knew if it was intentional. The boy was struggling a lot, perhaps they had tied the rope around his neck to stop him from crying. As soon as they untied the rope, they realized Bhairab's fears were justified; the boy was dead. Bhairab's humble and calm tone surprised Bonmali. He had never heard him speak so softly. Looking at him in the lamplight, Bonmali wondered: 'The man hasn't gone mad, has he?' Kali, surprised by his calm voice, still said fearfully, 'He won't do anything to us, will he?' Bonmali came into the room and said, 'A few more are coming. They were guarding with guns, I couldn't move forward, brother. We never imagined they would torture you in your own home.' That day, after the beating, you were in a daze, Kali was sobbing uncontrollably, tied to the post, and Bhairab, in that same calm voice, said, 'Untie me first.' Sighing deeply, Bonmali said, 'He will get his revenge one day.'

"No, what's your fault? Quickly untie the rope—it seems the boy is finished. Who comes again?" Bhairab says in a muffled voice. "Shukho—answer! Come closer and tell me," Kali says. "It's me, Bonmali. This is the state of the poor." Kali herself doesn't realize how calm and composed she has become, unlike the boy, she doesn't wail and cry out in madness for him. If the boy had died from some ordinary illness or suffering, his piercing cries would have announced his death to the entire village. Seven people have committed atrocities. In front of her husband. Who? Can a bloodied body and a bloodied mind remain at the level of ordinary grief and sorrow? Kali and Bhairab take refuge in a room in Brajen Das's house, deep inside Bhairab's neighborhood. On one hand, he is unrecognizable, that enraged, mad Bhairab, and on the other hand, it's hard to imagine what a terrible event must have happened in his life that night. He joins the village protection committee, works, and listens to advice and suggestions. He wanders around all day and tells his story to people in a concise and powerful way. Sitting in the courtyard, standing on the street, in the market, he tells the incident to farmers and laborers like a close friend, asking, "Won't you help? You are my brothers?" One by one, several more acquaintances arrive, and Bhairab's calm demeanor surprises them as well. Nagen's wife and Nitai's aunt had come; sitting in a corner, Kali pleads with them. After listening quietly for a while, Bhairab says, "Don't cry, sister. What's the point of crying? If they live, we'll just see how much havoc we can wreak, how many we can make cry." Seven days later, when that gang attacks Lochon Das's house at midnight, ties him and his father, and takes the women of the house to organize another celebration, Bhairab pounces like a tiger with three hundred people, making almost everyone who came forget their fathers' names. How terrible his appearance looks then. Seeing it, Bonmali and many others understand where Bhairab's mood has gone. So, they are not surprised to see him gentle and calm again the next day. Bhairab slowly says, "You will get it, sister, you will get it soon. We will take revenge, with interest." The father-in-law of the bride in the Chotobokulpur Jatra 285 van is an old man from Avni. As old as he is, the gentleman has been overcome by premature old age even more.

The weight of the unspoken grief of never finding a place to belong after liberating the country cell by cell presses down. The grand wedding, a hollow dream of the idealistic age, and the eternal blind faith in the evergreen ideals, the gentleman never knew deception, nor learned to speak for himself through deceit. The marketplace of ideals is so vast that the glory of his sacrifice is not diminished even at exorbitant prices. At sixty-six, the burning of his heart mingled with the burning of the furnace has made the beggar extraordinary. Now the problem is, who will go? Avni's friend, so it would be most appropriate if he went, but the trouble is that the clerk's life has started to experience the unexpected. He can no longer spend his days in the office grinding ink and then tormenting himself with his duty to his family, relatives, and friends after taking leave. To keep his life going, he has started relentless efforts to improve the rituals, rules, and systems of the clerk's job, that is, the monthly salary. There is a strike at Avni's office tomorrow—Avni is well involved in making this happen again. He has no time at all to waste welcoming a respected friend. So, if Saroj has the interest to bring Jyotirmoy forward, no one has anything to say! It is rather a good sign if he wants to overcome his unnecessary inactivity and indifference and become active. He only says, "You can't go alone, take Montu with you." But the ideal is not his responsibility. How much Jyotirmoy has improved in life, where he has risen, it would be a grave offense not to show due respect to such a great man. This too is part of the ideal. So Saroj is in a dilemma. Today is the day Jyotirmoy is arriving. He is coming by plane from Delhi, he has written that he will stay at Avni's house for a couple of days. An unwelcome but respected guest. Shouldn't one go to the airport to welcome and bring him in? In the midst of cooking, Bani goes to the veranda and stands there, letting the breeze touch her sweaty body. A little further away, on the empty plot by the roadside, a small gathering of the laborers of the slum has been set up with their singing and music. How high their village tunes are, how vibrant and alive their voices are like a school. What a great rudeness it is to betel leaf? Doesn't a respectable person have any respect? If you don't go, I will go.

Jyotirmoy was once acquainted with Bani, but she knows that when he leaves, there will be no one at home to pick up the mail; her uncle is ill. "What are you saying? No one will go? When does that ever happen?" she asks. "The taxi will come to pick him up, what's the problem? Montu is eleven years old. He's Bani's brother. His step-brother, Subrata, will go to the students' emergency meeting. He's not a small child, Avani says, he can find his way home. Passionate? Imagining? Who knows what's on Jyotirmoy's mind. It's not difficult for Bani to consider that he's coming, drawn to her affection, but she doesn't like thinking that he's not happy with this romantic fantasy. If Jyotirmoy is coming for her, she knows what that means. They were once acquainted; perhaps sometimes, in passing, he might remember that the girl isn't bad to look at or listen to; from afar, thinking of the girl, a restlessness stirs in his heart, and Bani laughs at the thought of Jyotirmoy suddenly coming to see her. If, by chance, he is coming for her, the only conclusion is that a perverse fancy has possessed him. She remembers that she found him attractive a couple of times but never tried to reach out; today, he's a serious, responsible man, let him come and spend a couple of days wandering around. How the world has changed so much in the meantime. They used to feel so much excitement and embarrassment at the unimaginable possibility of Jyotirmoy coming to their house in the city. There's no doubt that they also harbored many expectations. Today, apart from her old, eccentric father-in-law, no one has any particular headache about Jyotirmoy. Today, they have simply accepted that this is a mysterious event, and without Jyotirmoy's explanation, the meaning of this unseemly occurrence cannot be understood. Their big house is in Ballygunge, where her brother lives with his family. There is no shortage of big hotels and wealthy friends in the city. Yet, Jyotirmoy, after getting off the plane, is coming straight to his cousin's house, expressing his desire to stay there as a guest for a day or two. "No, no, this news hasn't spread. When I read that you preferred resting peacefully at a friend's house for two days to work, I didn't tell anyone. Don't we know that ten people would come and bother you if they knew? You would never set foot in this poor man's house."

The faintest desire to remember something is also denied by Jyotirmoy. He feels quite cheerful and self-assured, slapping Montu on the back and laughing, saying it's quite unfair not to recognize him. "You're not just his son, you're also Abonir's brother, aren't you?" Some light from the street lamps and the shop's bare bulb has fallen on their gathering, but they've lit a carbide lamp, raising one hand to ignore the borrowed light, the flame flickering in the wind. In the car, he tells Saroj, "I've come for an urgent matter. A mistake happened, I forgot to write to Aboni, I came so it doesn't spread everywhere." Saroj, seeing Jyotirmoy pause and recognize him, says, "Oh, you? You look terrible. Didn't Aboni come?" He offers a cigarette to Saroj's almost white hair and gaunt face, but Saroj doesn't take it and Jyotirmoy puts it back in his pocket. Saroj's joy is boundless. But it's difficult to feel anything other than pity for a man as sophisticated as Jyotirmoy these days. That whole type is despicable. "Aboni has gone for an urgent matter. Don't worry about anything, son. In the past, a man didn't like to be thought ill." The passenger of Chhotobakulpur, 287, says, "Let me tell you openly. I'm going to start an agency. Not in my own name, there are enemies everywhere, people will say all sorts of things. So I thought, who is trustworthy, who can be given responsibility? Then I thought, I've done so much for so many people, Aboni is my old friend, I haven't done anything for him. You worked all your life, and in the end, you didn't even have happiness. So I've decided to give all the responsibility to Aboni. He won't have to work anymore, he'll get twenty times the commission I get in the office." He looks at Bani in surprise, as if trying to verify with his eyes what he expected to see and what he is seeing. "Five or six years of marriage, a Karani's daughter, a Karani's wife! She's still so rough, so alive!" He feels quite embarrassed, not seeing Bani as the eternal motherly figure of a poor Bengali middle-class married woman. Saroj thinks to himself, "Damn! He was also an employee, and he is also an employee, at this age, how much success he has achieved, money, wealth, prestige, influence, and power!" But they don't know principles, they don't understand vows.

A plump girl, why this penance for her? Don't they remember that Gandhi also had a family, children? And then, when the time came, he became a monk. When they arrive, Bani is still alone at home, just Auntie is lying in bed, puffing on a cigarette. Saroj almost screams, exclaiming, "Amazing, no one has returned home yet! If they have any sense of decency. What agency is this father's?" Saroj's voice trembles, tears welling in her eyes. "So long—"

Hope, hope has shifted a little towards the West. Meaning, she wasn't happy in the country, an opportunity arose, and she went to America for a bit. "Office work?" Jyotirmoy's face lights up with a smile, dismissing the irritation. He is not unaware of how important this office is to Kerani. Silently muttering a few familiar mantras, Saroj touches her forehead to the ground, offering a prayer to some indeterminate deity. But God gave a quick reprieve; Jyotirmoy calms her: "Oh, you won't be busy. The work is stuck, it will come on time. I'll go home and tell you. How many children do you have?" And his office work. "It will take a lot of time to complete 288 Manik Rachanasamagra. Probably, how will he adapt his accustomed calculations of his highest world to suit the world of people, it will take several hours (if he has to stay here for forty-eight hours, ten hours outside for his own work, fourteen hours for sleep, ten hours for writing letters, reading papers, thinking. Still, fourteen hours remain for domestic and social life. There is no way but to spend another ten hours pretending to be ill. Can the total be reduced further by trimming it down in another way? It seems they will go to the void. Friendship, love, ideals, principles, humanity, etc. are just pretense, the boy has to be named for stealing to get a job. In his life, in his family, this is almost like a revolution. Once that is settled, everything will be easy," Jyotirmoy says, sitting and bouncing on the veranda, laughing heartily. "I'm not saying that a girl will be dressed up and dancing and singing for a small favor, see what a commotion it will create. The girl who listens to the song and cries a little, that girl will have to give her father a slap or two. The girl has to be sent to Shantiniketan to be spoiled. She also has to be sent to the movies."

The song is actually Ashtavasta, so if you don't listen to the lyrics, you won't understand it. Why should we spend thousands to hear a bombastic song? It's too much trouble. Looking towards the workers' quarters in the distance, illuminated by carbide lights, he says, "That Batadev is really clever these days. He's working for a fat wage, doing things on the cheap." People only see our profit. No one calculates the thousand rupees we spend on a single song. Don't be angry, Bani, I'm just stating the facts. There's a severe water shortage. There's a shortage of everything—even cabbages! You didn't even have to say it, Bani. Jyotirmoy has calculated all this. He's not averse to enduring these hardships for a day or two for a big, fat, secret profit. Bani senses Jyotirmoy's discomfort. To lighten the mood, she says, "What's the point of being sad? If it's possible, it'll be done." "Take off your clothes, you want to, don't you? I've kept two buckets of water with special effort." Saroj calls Bani aside and says, "Listen, I have something to tell you. Just calculate for a moment how much conversation we've had. When will Avni provide a solution? Don't push it, or you'll face destruction." "It's not like that." Saroj, in a fit of rage, doesn't understand or mean it. Edna has such a lowly spiritual life that, like a materialist, she always involves herself with her husband in everything. Whether something happens to me or not, whether my husband is well or not, these thoughts never even cross her mind. "Am I going to destroy your son? What's in it for me, father? Should I just not listen? Why the special effort? Aren't you saying so?" Bani stays in the small room. After asking Jyotirmoy for a sheet, she makes a bed in that room, saying, "Sit down with your arms and legs stretched out, what's the point of a chair at home! You'll suffer a lot." Observing the expression on his face, Bani reassures him, "Don't worry, the man has come to the house, I'll take care of him with my life." While talking to Jyotirmoy, Saroj has taken off her clothes. Realizing this, Saroj quickly calls her aside and takes her away. When Bani went to bathe, Jyotirmoy's suspicion deepens. "Oh father, she doesn't even go there, does she?"

Let me tell you, there's no need for that job, or for a strike either. You don't have children, do you?" Jyotirmoy asks suddenly. It's not hard to understand Bani's real curiosity, because he was looking for an answer to his curiosity all over her. "I've had quite enough trouble with you all. Jyotirmoy is surprised, even hurt. Tomorrow, my husband will leave his job and start earning five or six hundred rupees a month; for his sake, I didn't dare to take on a job even once. What's the point of answering this question?" Bani remains silent. Bani says slowly, "There was a treatment. It required a lot of money, which couldn't be arranged." Jyotirmoy's head droops slightly, his gaze falling to the floor. "Why didn't you write to me? If Avni earns five or six hundred rupees a month, she'll be happy, won't she?" Jyotirmoy looks up, "I'll arrange everything tomorrow. It will be in Sarojbabu's name; there's a special significance to his name. Avni will take care of everything. I'll resign tomorrow itself. The strike will be called off. No! What are you saying?" "Alright. Everyone agrees." "It seems I won't have to resign after all; it will be postponed anyway." It's almost nine o'clock when the 290 Manik Rachanasamagra returns. Bani eagerly asks, "What happened?" Avni looks at Bani. Bani seems to know he would look at her this way; she stood behind Saroj's eyes, looking sideways. Silently biting her lips, Bani points to Saroj with her eyes. The meaning of the gesture is easy to understand. If you lose your patience, it won't work; if you're busy, it won't work; you have to acknowledge the existence of the old man as long as he is there. A dangerous, impatient anger was burning in Avni's calm eyes; if she hadn't received Bani's signal, she might have forgotten who the real mastermind was, and crushed the helpless, helpless father.

Saroj starts telling the boy about Jyotirmoy's anonymous agency business. Seeing Avni's tired and exhausted face, Bani, who was about to bring up the topic after dinner, bites her lip and remains silent. Hunger will torture Avni, but if she doesn't calm down a little, it's not surprising if she collapses at any moment. Bani spreads a mat there and sits Saroj down, holding his hands, and says, "Sit down and talk, father, you won't be busy." Saroj says, "In the end, I have lived my whole life upholding principles and ideals; if I saw any fault in it, I would have stopped myself."

In the moral depths of a human's heart, things aren't always what they seem on the surface. You can't just sit down and tell Jyotirmoy anything you please. In anger and sorrow, tears well up in his eyes. Let the hungry die, let life come to a standstill; all these weaknesses won't stop a person from being busy, won't allow them to act hastily. Time has further solidified Jyotirmoy's agency. Knowing everything, Saroja's fear has grown as much as her excitement. She is unwilling to let Jyotirmoy discuss things with her son without first understanding him herself. Saroja fears that her son's newfound resolve will be obstructed by agreeing to the agency's proposal. Perhaps she will directly tell Jyotirmoy, "I don't care about your trickery. It's your fault!" Saroja says in an accusatory tone. But resentment is just a common human emotion, not at all deadly. The fear that had gripped Saroja, the terror that her son would cancel out the lifelong sacrifices and concessions she had made, has subsided. Let him be angry and resentful, now she is calm. There is no possibility of her suddenly dropping dead from a heart attack. Only Bani and Abani understand how terrible that moment passes. Those who, over the ages, have driven many a good deed astray in the opposite direction, creating chaos and misunderstanding in homes due to intense, great emotions like hatred, lead to destruction. Jyotirmoy will cheat people, using his system to exploit the strong but helpless Saroja and her poor clerk son, Abani, by embezzling thousands of rupees under the guise of public opinion, and in a little more time, the veil between them would have been torn, leaving Saroja and Abani exposed. Listen then—did Jyotirmoy say anything to you? Saroja's hands and feet are trembling with excitement, her words are getting tangled. When will he say it? Abani says in a gentle, calm voice, "If you insist, then it will happen as you say. I won't go against you. But I am thinking, you are asking me to do this for my own good. If my happiness and peace are ruined, becoming a laughingstock for everyone, how can you be happy?" The traveler from Chhotobakulpur sniffed twice, took a glass of water from Bani, took a few sips, and then said, "What's the problem with you? This isn't about theft or servitude, it's just a matter of business."

Someone or other would get the agency, Jyotirmoy had the power to give the agency, he arranged things for himself secretly without giving it to others. It seems a bit unfair, the people of the country were told one thing and another thing was done. But what's so special about that? Others also ran the agency, Jyotirmoy would run it with his own people. The main thing is to run the agency. That's what's best for the country. What's your objection to that? In the three or four houses around, radios are blaring with music. But thankfully, the noise of drums, cymbals, bells, and collective voices somewhat drowns it out. Avni says, let's do one thing. Jyotir wants to do the agency in your name, so let him do it. You keep people under your control, run the agency. I'm in or out, that's all. Jyotirmoy gets quite angry about the food, even though Saroj specially brought a pui fish for him and mostly gave him the fish. But Jyotirmoy knows how to suppress his anger where there's no point in getting angry. He only calculates profit. He doesn't like to spend anger or sorrow without profit. Pishima says the same in a soft voice, touching her forehead for a long time before leaving. At that moment, I understood that there might be trouble in the meeting, otherwise, why would the boy be so worried for her! He thought he might not return. Bani says, that's just chatter. You know, the Bengali is alive because of pui. Pui instead of rice, pui instead of fish and meat. What if there's no kochu and pui? - Hearing the reply, his face becomes even more pensive. He can't swallow rice for a while. He repeatedly looks up at the thin but calm face of the widow Pishima. Bani says, no Pishima, he hasn't returned yet. Don't give up on kochu and chingri. - Avni says. Wow! Lau saag is almost finished, Salil comes home as they finish eating. He says, wow, everyone is busy filling their stomachs. It doesn't seem to bother him at all that a great man like Jyotirmoy is present. Taking off his half-dirty panjabi, washing his hands, he pulls out a chair and sits down, saying, quickly bring the plate, my dear, first eat, then other things. It's still not time to return. Wrapped in a shawl, Pishima slowly comes into the room and sits near the wall by the door. Slowly she says, Salil hasn't come, has he? Pishima silently nods her head in agreement. Meanwhile, Jyotirmoy's face suddenly looks pale. Who is Salil? What meeting? Jyotirmoy laughs heartily.

He couldn't decide what to do or say. Saroj sighed and said, "Let me think. You all go and eat. I won't eat anything today, son." Bani snapped and came forward. "No, don't eat. I've kept some barley porridge, sip it and lie down." At 292 Manik Rachonasamagra, before going to sleep, Bani went to check on Saroj. Exhausted Avani had already lain down and almost fallen asleep, waking up at Bani's touch, she understood something from her face. Silently, the two stood beside the simple bed laid out on Saroj's cot, Avani searching for life despite the slight indication. Tears welled up in Bani's eyes. Old Saroj had fallen into a deep sleep. As soon as she found the bowl of rice, she started eating, not looking anywhere. Jyotirmoy looked at this expression of accumulated, vibrant, intense hunger with surprise. He had seen Avani's eating habits, but not to this extent. He couldn't believe that even in the mansion, she was so hungry and had to suppress it for the rationed food. Bani, after eating, heard Salil calling a taxi. Jyotirmoy had packed his things. A huge problem arose when the taxi arrived. Would Jyotirmoy leave without informing Saroj, who seemed to be asleep? Jyotirmoy tried to laugh and said, "I thought I would stay at the hotel, I'll come from there and meet you all. Seeing your father, I forgot everything. It's so good to meet you all after so long. I'll just forget about the hotel, I have my things. Do I have time to rest? After writing a letter to your father, it was settled, it's a very serious matter. I have to go to the hotel, some important people are coming in the morning, a big conference. I'll talk to everyone with Salil for a while, they seem to have forgotten Jyotirmoy." Feeling weak, Saroj had lain down, her heartbeat would have stopped if he were present. A deep shadow of worry descended on Jyotirmoy's face. He took a cigarette after eating and puffed on it. He sniffed, cleared his throat, sat in various ways, rubbing his palms together. "I'm not tired. I'm thinking, I've caused you a lot of trouble. If I had known about all the commotion in the house—I still puffed on the cigarette.

He put out the glass of water and the burning cigarette, picked up a fresh one, and lit it. Tired? You should just lie down, Avni says. Avni asks, how was the meeting? Grand. The joint procession is tomorrow. We have no problem, no veto. The problem is yours. Avni says, that's why he does it. Hearing this, she sighs with relief and gets into the illuminated taxi. As the taxi drives away, Bani also sighs with relief, saying, thank goodness, he resolved our problem himself. Avni says, Oh Bani, Kojo and Glass had brought it, he says, our guest isn't coming? Suddenly he says, there was a mistake, yes! I have to go. We'll explain. You don't get such good sleep, when sleep comes, there's no point in waking him up. Will you leave? That's fine. You'll have to come back, won't you? Chhotobakulpur's passenger is a hotel for 293 poor people, most of those who come to eat are factory and office laborers and clerks. A plate of rice, lentil water, and a green vegetable, this is more or less cheap by today's market standards. The pay system is prevalent, if there's not enough money in the knot, there's no barrier to eating half a plate or a quarter plate. At least the consolation of having something in your stomach is possible here, you have to make do with water when it comes to satisfying hunger. Fish and meat are available, at a high price. When I feel depressed, when I feel exhausted and unclean, touched by the spread of the illusory web of the false deceitful world of the wealthy, I come and sit here. In this polluted, dirty environment, looking at the food and eating habits of the laborers and clerks, I feel the existence of the boundless, immense, unsatisfiable hunger of the world. In countless consciousnesses, its reflection becomes the great sacred fire of a hate sacrifice, burning eternally, and I feel its heat in my own consciousness. I feel healthy and clean. I say, quarrel? It's a quarrel! Today at home, all kinds of fights are going on - family, social, marital, political, spiritual - only the communal war is missing. Today at home, there's also a hunger strike by the other side, they haven't cooked. They've already given notice that if he doesn't go to the office today, he'll be dismissed. Everyone in the house knows this. Will he get a job in this market? Everyone will starve to death. He'll make everyone starve to death whenever he wants, so when it's my wish, it's not surprising that Pashupati didn't go to the office this time, I knew they were on strike at his office today.

Pashupati lives with his family in a rented house nearby. It struck me as extremely odd that he would come to the hotel for a meal at this hour, even though the house is so close. It was almost half-past eleven. From morning until now, carrying the plates back and forth, the floor in the dining room had become muddy in front of the chairs. The crowd of diners was thin. I was wondering if I should eat when I saw, to my surprise, Pashupati take off his shoes and sit down, claiming a seat in the dining room. I sat down next to him and asked for food. By then, Pashupati's food had already arrived; the hotel's owner is strangely quick. Looking at the piece of fish in the brass bowl, with its pencil-marked rubbery appearance in the spiced gravy, Pashupati stared with calm, generous eyes, a faint, sorrowful smile playing on the corners of his mouth. I could tell he was thinking: What world does this man live in! Arguing over a little spice and rice! And he doesn't even realize that such a thing as a 'nakami' (a person of no consequence) ever existed in the life of the middle class? When a person is enraged, the stiffness leaves their language. I deliberately said in a light tone, "There was a fight at home, so I understand you're angry and came out to eat rice in the old way?" Pashupati sighed and said, "It's not illness, it's war. It's been going on for days, today is the peak of the conflict. On one side, it's me, and on the other, everyone in the house. Sometimes I come to eat at this hotel. Can't I afford a little luxury? The hotel has an owner, doesn't it? Why wasn't there food cooked at home? Is it an illness or what? You wouldn't understand what happened in the house." --Taking the bowl of rice away from his mouth, he said-- "I always wanted freedom, and in the end, I became the most dependent of all. What you think and what happens. What you want and what you get. When I was in college, I thought I would become a doctor, but in the end, I became a clerk. And that too, through my father's efforts, not because of my own merit. You know what the situation is, without any dreams for the future, you have to go crazy trying to find a way to make a living. Even when I was desperate for a job, I couldn't do anything, my father bribed someone and got me the job. What else would surprise my father today? Do you know what he said first? He said, 'How will I show my face to Umesh Babu?' It was Umesh Babu who gave me the job."

Oh, what a great act of ingratitude I am committing, what a great injustice I am doing! Father is such a devoted man. He still wears khadi. He eats silently for a few minutes. Suddenly, he laughs a little strangely: so much arguing, so much lecturing, so much self-pity and resentment. But he didn't bring up patriotism, the plight of children – he understands I am getting older too. He has one argument: I am almost an officer – just a little below. If I stay put, I can become a stomach officer. Why should I crowd with those clerks who earn fifty or sixty takas? Actually, all these arguments are not that important, they are domestic matters. The pressure of affection and love is what's crushing. It's as if a deep shadow of grief has fallen on the house, doom is approaching. All I hear day and night is grumbling, what can be done? Alas, what can be done? My sister's wedding is coming, my wife is seven months pregnant, and my father's ailing body – the matter doesn't seem to be getting any clearer. The family hasn't yet faced the situation of starving to death, naked and bare. But living like a discarded tree, stripped of all life's joys, hopes, pleasures, fulfillment, variety, and the possibility of development, is not so appealing that my relatives will be afraid to try to change. To make him leave, I give him another jab, saying, "If you had even a little bit of willpower..." He takes a little of the dry rice in his mouth, licks the spoon, and puts a little on his tongue. The rice is so thin that it's impossible to chew. His hand was trembling a little. The picture of his house forms in my imagination and startles me too. This is almost a collective attack by the entire family against the only earning member, and everyone depends on that person. Yet the matter seems too exaggerated. It stands as a somewhat unreal, unnatural closeness. Who doesn't resort to hunger strikes these days, who doesn't have a way? Mother, father, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces are all stuck in the struggle to survive, it's not their hobby. That's why the lives of all the other people in the house have also come to a pathetic state. Let the fast begin from today! Two days ago and then again. Mother, father, aunts, uncles, and everyone else are lying in bed from morning, sighing, shedding tears.

Squinting, squinting, he's looking at Natar with a sidelong glance, wondering if he's planning to serve the muri with a side of gutiguti. This pitiable situation didn't arise overnight; gradually, the misfortune grew, and with it, a certain amount of support developed at home. It's not as if, excluding you all, he's only thinking of himself and neglecting everyone else's well-being. Pashupati didn't go to the office today, lost in his own thoughts. A hunger strike isn't some detective novel adventure. How many miles did you get? In Chhotobakulpur, passengers are moving about in the dining room, and swarms of hotel flies buzz around. In the kitchen, a quarrel erupts between Thakur and Jhiri; Jhiri's sharp, shrill voice rings out. The middle-class consciousness, always hanging by a thread of hope, is now caught in a thousand forms of terror at the prospect of plummeting into the abyss. How could he possibly describe the failed, disrupted life he led, trying desperately to turn away from the unfathomable depths of despair below? Pashupati cannot. Having witnessed this fear and its consequences since childhood, he has fled from the people of the earth, seeking courage, and from his own inadequate words, one can only imagine what he is hinting at. But is there still so much fear? There is hesitation, doubt, despair of confusion, but so much terror? How can a few individuals manage? How can the whole family cope? It's impossible without someone making an effort to fan the flames. As if answering my unspoken question, Pashupati says, "My wife was in my group. Even while staying inside, she gets some outside news. What we think and feel, some of it inevitably reaches the core in our marital conversations. I understood a little that this wasn't just my problem; everyone in the office was doing it together. But the daughter-in-law also became corrupted. Seven months of pregnancy, everyone is constantly chanting near her ears, wondering how long she can hold on. My father probably realized that he couldn't manage alone with me. He brought my sister-in-law. A plump, strong, forceful woman, with a prosperous family and children, very practical. Everyone together, what could they do? The daughter-in-law only attacked once. Do you want to hear an example? She cries at night and says, 'In my condition, won't you even look at me?'

The mother of the two boys, when she collapsed under the weight of her stomach, how could one imagine what it would be like? I don't know how I'm managing, how I'm standing. Pashupati says in a soft voice, "The fight is easy for you all. We are all together, one thought, one purpose. I know everyone will share the spoils if we play the game well. My life has been drained in the household battles. I thought, if they are fasting to control me, why should I starve? That's why I came to the hotel to eat. But can rice be digested with just water? I see Pashupati's tired face brighten, his crooked spine straightening. Intervening, I make a proposal, which is accepted. Perhaps for the first time, Pashupati's family has found a seat to sit and eat in this dirty hotel, away from home. Suddenly, she says, "If you just forcefully express your desire, it can be done! Are we going to say anything about your judgment? Look at you here!" - Pashupati's wife seems to release the pent-up breath of many births - "Mother, you come without saying anything? Then Pashupati's father comes in. He looks at the boy for a while with deep affection, silently. He raises his face to speak, his eyes wide. Pashupati's wife stands inside the hotel's dining room, wearing a simple sari. Her parents and teenage sister are also visible near the door outside. The uncle probably hasn't come. Nor has the elder sister. "Is your sister still alive?" "She is. The brother's job's allure is not fading." I nod silently in respect. Inside, they have found another small room - but the kitchen is only one. The Kalyanis cook inside the kitchen, Bhiba cooks on the veranda. However, it is impossible to determine who has benefited in terms of convenience and inconvenience. The kitchen is damp, there is no ventilation, in summer it is quite uncomfortable, and in winter, even with the heat, it is difficult to bear the chilling days that shake the bones. Breath gets stuck, sometimes you have to run outside and stand in the yard, looking up at the sky and panting. There is so little space in the courtyard that it is difficult to move around. Generally, the Kalyanis respond more to the master's strict commands - quickly, with a little interest.

People rarely visit the tenants of the disputed or sublet houses; the landlords themselves are numerous, and more so are those who come to see or work for them. Their contact with the outside world is much greater than that of other tenants. The landladies are probably busy in the kitchen or with other work; Bhiba's cooking and eating time is long gone. After looking for a couple of minutes, assuming someone has come to them, she picks up the veil and sends someone to inquire. This is what has to be done when living in a shared house. Seeing him, Bhiba sat up with a start, her anxious and curious voice saying, "Rani! Is that you? What a sight you are! What has happened to you?" Rani seems a little startled, a faint smile coming to her face. "If you say so, you haven't changed much either. You've turned so dark, what was your original complexion?" The two friends look at each other all over, their eyes wide with anxiety and almost a little fear. They stand before each other like two mirrors reflecting their respective shattered pasts. How bad has it become, how dirty is the complexion, how tired are the eyes? How much has the light of health dimmed, how much has the beauty and radiance faded? Every day, while doing their hair in front of the mirror, applying powder and vermillion on their faces, they feel a little down, sometimes a little despondent. But until seeing their friend's face today, they hadn't realized how tragically they themselves had changed, how much their bodies had withered and shrunk. A faint, indistinct hope flickers in Bhiba's mind that perhaps someone has come to her today? Someone never comes, but if someone has come, then, after a while, a girl of three years, wearing a frock, appears at the open door, holding the hand of a girl of Bhiba's age. "Rani, come in. What happened?" After waiting a moment for the landlord's harsh voice to subside, Bhiba says, "Look, Rani, who is it? Who do you want? Couldn't you have thought? How much you've startled me." Bhiba sighs with relief. She had forgotten the terrible hardships, the life-and-death struggles they were living through, forgotten the state they were in, what they were eating, and with what anxiety and fear they were spending their days.

The suffocating, terrifying layer of anxiety that had built up inside him since childhood, fueled by constant uncertainty and a vague sense of dread, had surged to the surface today. Was this the inevitable way of life, the predetermined fate that stripped away all joy and enthusiasm so quickly? Was this the reason his life, barely twenty-five or twenty-six years old, felt so devoid of meaning, like a futile game of make-believe? Bibi reminded him, no, that wasn't it! Life wasn't that deceptive, nor was the body so fragile. It was simply the lack of food and clothing, the relentless worry and anxiety, the absence of laughter and merriment that had reduced them to this state. How much time had passed? How many years? It was the day they got married, after the war, for both of them separately. Five years had passed since their last meeting. In those five years, Rani's once petite, delicate frame, which used to make him angry every day, had become bloated and unattractive, like a puffy packet of chips? His throat tightened, and he couldn't find the familiar curve of her chin. Her once soft, delicate complexion had turned pale and dull, like washed-out fish. Bibi's anger rose, and tears welled up in his eyes. Bibi's two sons were asleep, and Rani, who had been staring at the younger one for a few moments, said softly, "How old is he now?" Helplessly, Bibi looked towards the wardrobe. Rani was wearing a good sari, one of those saved from better days, the kind that no one would wear except for special occasions like weddings. Bibi knew the meaning of this mystery; she was in the same situation. She too had once had five or seven good saris in her trunk, for visiting relatives, for going to the movies, for going out. But at home, that stock was gradually running out. In this lawless land, there was no end to the plundering of women's clothes. There was nothing between the expensive wedding saris and the worn-out ones for daily chores; it was impossible to keep any. Could women even remain naked at home? Already, fearing this, he had bought a couple of ordinary, decent clothes with great effort, trying his best not to use them, but it was impossible.

Twenty-four hours a day, the body has to be covered. The elder son is sick, the younger one has a big belly, and his arms and legs are like sticks. Seeing him, the Queen forgot her own appearance. Suddenly, she says, "What else can be done? Whatever is there, live with it. What has happened, has happened. Why alone? I came riding on a horse, standing at the door, surprised! What do you say? Why didn't you say anything for so long? Really! Will you finish it? Bhiba pulls the Queen's daughter's hand and takes her to her lap. How many more? This is one. Yours? Two years. Kalyani was asking Amiya, "Whom do you desire?" Kalyani is ten years older than Bhiba, not more. She has two sons and daughters, eleven people in the family. Under that pressure, her shame and shyness have shrunk. Burning with shame, seeing the people in the courtyard, she has come to easily tell her needs in a single cloth, without hesitation, without doubt, without discomfort. She doesn't look like a maid, she looks like a Queen. How shameful it is in the eyes of a stranger, the seed of this thought doesn't even sprout in her mind, she has become so strong and infertile, the pride of the middle class. But what a terrible thing, even Bhiba herself has come forward without wearing a blouse! She didn't even realize that. She quickly tears it off, and by ten o'clock, when the men of the house go out to work, she takes off the blouse, washes her body thoroughly before the men return in the afternoon, and puts it back on. Has staying naked become a habit like Kalyani? Like maids, servants, and laborers? Bhiba's ears become hot. To remove clothes, to bathe, to wash with soap, to scrub with a dhop, to wash—these daily needs are the most difficult. So she had to think, how many more days can she manage like this, what is the way, she will send it to the dhop and keep it. She kept it, but she couldn't keep it for long. Amiya doesn't sit for more than ten minutes. He has come just to drop off the Queen on his way to work. The poor fellow has been shot, and he has lost his government job. Friends have somehow managed to get him a job in a newspaper. Coincidentally, the newspaper is anti-government, and it's never clear when the newspaper will be shut down. Alna's saree is as torn as a rag from a shop, the other one is very dirty. Should the box be opened? The Queen's husband is standing at the front door, is it appropriate to make such a fuss now? Extending her hand, she pulls the dirty cloth itself.

Kalyani doesn't believe the word 'recovery' at all; it's truly difficult to find signs of recovery in Amiya's appearance. People don't look like this after recovering from an illness, only if they maintain it. Only his eyes are bright and shining in the dark. "We came here," he tells Kalyani, "the queen I told you about, my childhood friend? Her husband." "What do you know," Bipasha says, "all nineteen and twenty, was this bliss coming from a clerk's job? The struggle to maintain the status of a job inside and outside the home... My own mind doesn't even listen, whatever it is, I have to do the job, at least I get something at the end of the month, I have to maintain at least the minimum standard of a gentleman, don't I?" "He's in a state of exhaustion, he can't even fill his stomach, nor can he die without eating." "Now he's doing well, whether it's the tenth or twentieth; anyway, you don't have any illness?" Kalyani asks without any pretense. "I was ill, now I've recovered." Kalyani laughs like a culprit for forgetting such a big thing. "Oh, I remember," Kalyani suddenly says, "you were shot. You were also ill." Amiya says. "Bipasha said your name in the newspaper. But Amiya doesn't seem particularly worried. Rather, a kind of carefree feeling has come over him. Chhotobakulpur's passenger.

Perhaps he doesn't like many other things being different - perhaps he misunderstands the words and behavior, and perhaps he will misunderstand more! He himself doesn't know a little how much his life has been scattered in this one and a half rooms with half of the next one. As soon as Rani stood at the door, seeing her pale, faint face, his heart pounded with fear at the thought of danger! His friend has come, the one he couldn't be without seeing at least once a day, he becomes restless if he doesn't see her; after so long, that friend has come to his door - he can't greet her with joy and excitement, he can't prove he is grateful by laughing and crying and saying whatever comes to mind! He doesn't have the ability, no matter how much he tries, he can't maintain that joy for long, he will have to leave him with a yawn. What will Rani think then? What kind of awkward situation will be created? Without any hesitation, he easily utters the word 'shala' in front of Bipasha. Truly. What a small person he has become, an educated, refined gentleman!

Nearby, a radio plays a sweet, languid tune, and the clinking of crockery rises from the courtyard. Along with the crockery of the well-to-do, the earthenware of the tenants also gathers in the courtyard. Together, three or four small children cry, the exact number hard to tell. But they can't be sent away. —With bright, watchful eyes from beneath his cap, Ami looks straight at Bhiba's face and, in the amazing intimacy that develops in ten minutes, takes her words, saying with easy, sympathetic warmth, "You have a son to educate, the market, rations, coal, medicine, the doctor—how can you manage? And I thought further: if he stays until afternoon, what will I feed him with tea? If his daughter cries for milk, where will I get milk? If he gets a fever in the evening, what will I give him to sleep in bed? Didn't I say so? I just wrote a letter after reading the news about the paper mill layoffs. What good would it do to send it to the boss?" Oh, this quarrel! —Bhiba is truly embarrassed, —I thought I would leave. I have given him notice, he's been saying he'll leave in a month or so—In ten minutes, Ami has made their friendship easy and established it on a firm foundation of reality. Bhiba has no more fear, no hesitation, no hesitation. Because, standing up in the midst of some lack, Ami says, "After receiving your letter, I came home and sat down to quarrel, but I was delayed due to my illness." When Ami leaves, Bhiba says easily, "Hey, take the cloth and put your hand in, don't bother to adjust it. It's still in the state of being stitched." —Bhiba laughs wholeheartedly. What's the point of quarreling? 300 Manik's worth of furniture, all the utensils are still there. That year he had a bout of typhoid, then he pulled me to the hospital. I don't know why I feel like crying even when I know I'm going to die, brother. It almost killed me, what pain I suffered this time. Yet, look, I haven't had a good meal in these two days. Do people's separation pains increase when things go bad? Before, in the same way, the deep, secret mysteries of life would arise, and before anyone opened their mouth, just by looking at the expressions of their eyes and faces, the two friends would understand that the conversation would be only between their two souls, hidden from all the people in the world. Bani will not blame him for any disorder, if his daughter cries for milk, he will not even let her eat two dry morsels.

Even if you give me a dirty rag instead of a sheet, I won't let Bani sleep on the floor, not even in my thoughts. Bani laughs a little, gets up, and says, "Are you afraid to sleep alone? Are you still like that?" Biva feels a bit hurt. Bani says, "Tell me? You tell me first." The two friends look at each other's faces in surprise. Can't you give Bani a mat? This little thing has made him understand. Wearing a dirty sari, Bani seems saved. What then? Am I different from you? Biva says, "I don't understand anything, brother. This nonsense is going on, what kind of food do you want to eat? No, still, I feel like ghosts are pressing on me. In the first two years of marriage, everyone goes crazy, and my father was quite restrained in those days. I used to think about the quarrels, the fights, how to sleep in the same bed in that cramped room. Then I realized what trouble I was in, I have no strength. I can't sleep, what if he calls and I'm not there? Should I run around? Will I believe it? I won't be able to stay, I'll come on my own. There's money. What about you?" Bani says, "Then I'm tired these days, I have to pay attention to other things. You will be too. After thinking for a bit, Bani says again, "I think this is nonsense. If you don't get good food, you get anxious and this nonsense happens. Don't you see the children? If they are hungry, they eat more, they steal and eat whatever they can. Where will they get it from? I've given up. Three or four rupees a month - what will they eat? A clove cleanses the mouth. No. Bani laughs, twisting the plastic bangle on Biva's raised hand. The two friends look into each other's eyes with a strange, questioning look, the same experience, the same problem has arisen in both their minds at the same time, today in the afternoon, when they will meet again, they will have to verify the question to each other. They have to know, it's a strange, awkward situation that the endless suffering over a long-standing matter has not happened to just one person, but both are in the same condition. They have to understand why this happens, what does this accident mean? Is this fashion so prevalent? Like the situation, so is the fashion. You don't have gold? The house doesn't grow, you can't eat, there will be no peace of mind, there will be no nourishment in the body, is that why you get married? You too? By fate, this fashion has started - people don't think without seeing gold.

The faint sound of laughter from passenger 301 on the Chhotobakulpur local train blends with the rhythmic clatter of the train's wheels and the muffled cries of a child, piercing the silence of the midday heat. It's not just the child's cries; a young woman is also singing in a melodious voice from the upper floor of the house. On the ground floor, there's a tenant, Ramesh, and his old mother. Ramesh's younger brother, Ashish, had just started looking for a job after finishing college when he died of TB a few days ago. I saw him walking around that day. Bibha suddenly shivered and said, "He used to sleep all day and night." We argued with her, "Have we gained independence or not?" Sitting on this bed one night, while talking, he started coughing, and a spot of blood fell on the sheet. What a strange thing to be so worried about. He didn't even care about the little bit of blood before, but that day, there was more. He doesn't even care about his own body. I wonder what today's youth are like, you know, Rani? He only eats two handfuls of spinach and stale rice, not a drop of milk or fish. He works and then studies, putting the child to bed until nine at night. One day, while talking like that, he starts coughing again. As if unconsciously, he gives a faint smile and says, "At first, I thought I would burn the sheet. But then I'd have to buy another one immediately. In the end, so—Rani makes the impossible possible—what if the bed gets stained with blood? I used to think so much about such nonsense. One day, the street itself was stained with blood. And I don't think about it anymore. What's the point of being so afraid, of being afraid? Even a coolie survives, and will survive in this world." Bibha can't even bring herself to say this last part, and then she becomes unconscious again. It's impossible to utter the end of this sentence. Aren't you stealing too, you wretch? The two friends laugh. 302 Manik will start the literary magazine. A thick stream of rain falls, a hand's breadth away from Sukhlal's window. Sukhlal has placed two bricks there, otherwise the water would have made a hole in the ground. The rhythmic patter of the rain is very soothing now. A croaking frog, clinging to the bricks, is annoyed by the water splashed on it. The old hen's big rooster was pecking at the pile of garbage with utter indifference, when suddenly it raised its head and stood like a proud hero, its feathers puffed up, and the hen became alert. The goose father looks on with angry eyes.

Whether Laxmi saves money or not, whether Sukhlal knows anything or not, the real point is that there will be no 'dhaab' (offering). In other circumstances, even if Laxmi didn't save money, Sukhlal would have given it himself, but the situation is different now. A month-long 'Gobobba' fast is coming up. The 'mobog' (a type of sweet) costs four rupees. Sukhlal doesn't eat chicken, doesn't touch fish. Ram Ram, one can't even think about all the food. He has saved the 'mobog' for his father. Biben Babu, the engineer at Shaktalala Works, is his father. The house isn't far, but he has to deliver it by that time. On Saturdays, alcohol is prohibited outside, so Biben Babu eats at home. His wife will prepare chicken. The 'mobog' costs four rupees. It's burning Sukhlal. He's a 'murgikhhor' (chicken eater). Gobobba Ma scolds, "I don't know anything! Why are you saying so much? Why are you saying so much—it's for your bald head." In two minutes, she comes back from the room with a small brass glass. She says, "No, give the money to Baba. It will be needed for the stomach, for eating." With both hands, Gobobba Ma pats his bulging belly—she had said she would give 'dhaab'. Gobind Ma says, "She said she would give a 'brishabhya' (cow)." Sukhlal asks, "What's the use of that?" Gobordhan Ma came and lay down, yes, didn't Sukhlal keep the money for Laxmi? The mud path in the slum is like black milk in the drizzle. What all filth is there, it's hard to make a list. There are also piles of garbage, including broken clay pots and various kinds of waste, dumped by the sanitation workers in the ditches along the road, and there is quite a bit of that. Human daily waste also flows and accumulates on the path, there's no solution. Dead rats, kittens, birds, toads, etc., rot and mix in. Many other things are also mixed in. Why talk about the pure stream that falls from the dense black clouds in the low sky, flowing over tin and thatched roofs? What's the use? I don't know anything. Only two annas and two paise are clear in the low eyes, what a poisonous mess this earth has become. Gobora's wife tells Durgu the story of the 'sindoor' (vermilion) while bringing the rations.

In that moment of heightened excitement, touched by the old, burning history of heartache, what she said and Sukhlal's response had become somewhat of a riddle. What insult had she hurled at Sukhlal regarding the unspoken rumors surrounding Laxmi? What had Sukhlal replied that his son's wife, Durga, was no less skilled in flattery? Who knows? In such a skirmish, attempting to curse carefully backfires, resulting in neither the pleasure of the tongue nor the peace of the soul. If she had spoken what was on her mind, Sukhlal might have been stung, and their livelihood would have been jeopardized. Still, it was clear that she had deeply insulted him, and his retort, though equally harsh, stemmed from a deeper wound, for it was born of the very pain she had inflicted. The mother of the sweeper, upon receiving that soiled one-taka note, immediately curses him. Fearing Sukhlal, who has the power to lend money at interest, the curse doesn't escape her lips directly. The poet, with a mischievous smile, retorts, "The vermillion on your forehead, your Laxmi, will become infested with lice, teeming with them, Sukhlal." He continues, "Your money will attract money-lending lice, and vermillion-loving lice." He adds, "I went to your place once, and I'm returning. Who told you to do all this? Your son has turned you into a beggar at the Kali Ghata, making you observe a fast. And your husband has done the same with ten other men." The old woman retorts, "You wretched woman, why are you meddling in all this? Durga has no gratitude at all!" The old woman, who arranges for rations and brings flour, has made arrangements for Saturday and Sunday feasts, as always; otherwise, they would have been fasting from this very moment. It seems Durga's offerings are not reaching her. A heavy downpour lasts for a few minutes, then the rain continues to fall in a light drizzle. It's been about a month, and the clouds seem weary from the relentless rain of the Ashadha month. Laxmi sets out for work early in the morning, her head covered, amidst such a heavy shower. Sukhlal has an umbrella, but the mother says, "You are a big man, you carry an umbrella. Why don't you worry about your stomach?" Durga says, as she unfolds the corner of her shawl, "I have no intention of going there. I am preoccupied with my stomach." She continues, "I brought home two maons of silver to buy rations, but they have already lent the money at interest!" So, Durga gives two annas to the sweeper's wife.

"Why not say what's on your mind if it can be expressed? Gobhar's mother was not only thinking about her own stomach, but about everyone else's. There's only one card ration left; there's no way around bringing it now. They don't give rations on Saturday afternoons, and the shop is closed on Sundays. I need to bring flour and rice today. He hands over a small, modern-looking metal coin and says, 'Take my glass and go.' Why the fuss? There's real vermillion available. Your son's wife also uses that vermillion. Good vermillion. Oh, death! Gobhar's mother goes to the shop and says, 'If you don't bring the rationed rice and flour, then you'll have to provide it.' Why all the trouble with you? And only two annas? If a special event occurs, a new knot in the story unfolds, there will be a clatter and commotion like a loose wheel. Give it? If you give it, men face great difficulties carrying it around in a basket. Earlier, Laxmi used to work as a maid in three houses, cleaning dishes, sweeping rooms, and doing laundry. Now she stays in one house from dawn till the first night, doing dishes and laundry, eats there at noon, and brings the night's food home. It's the house of a wealthy man from the cinema world, with two grown-up daughters and two very young children. There's about a twelve-year gap between the two pairs of children. Laxmi has heard and laughed at an amazing story about everyone in the neighborhood. She knows what caused it, what disease. The long war has informed them. That man who runs the beautiful hair-cutting salon, his wife, Kadambini, suddenly stopped having children after four or five years of marriage and then, after seven or eight years, started again. Where was her brother-in-law, Dasharathi, during the turmoil of the war? He left that job and, while searching for work, somehow ended up here, forcing them to get married and undergo treatment. Then, look at the magic, within three years, Kadambini is pregnant again with her second child. There wasn't that much trouble in the world; the wealthy Saheb Raja Malik created it. They dance and sing, with no discrimination between men and women, everyone is someone's master. That's why they are in their positions. There's not even the bond of blood between them. Father and daughter go for a stroll holding hands, in the deep of night, siblings huddle together under a blanket, whispering and chattering."

Inside and outside the house, they've always known that they have no rules or religion to follow. They've realized even more so, seeing the mess of their lives occasionally reflected in the movies, which leaves everyone stunned, men ashamed, and easily revealing their ugly sides, says Bipin. Yes, it's true. How else can they improve themselves so much if they know so much? How can they agree among themselves and abide by those agreements? Everyone is stubborn, no one listens to anyone, no one obeys anyone. Many occasionally borrow a couple of rupees from Laxmi or Sukhlal, promising to pay it back, and Sukhlal collects both the principal and interest in times of need. In this small area of the neighborhood, or rather, everywhere in the vast world, this is a constant occurrence, a fundamental rule of human life. So, there's no lack of wealth, knowledge, or intelligence; danger attracts just as it repels. But why? Is this some local, small-time game creator's simple rule? What ghost makes people act like animals instead of humans to feel at ease? Old Binod says, "Whatever you say, just like a single dose of medicine can cure a disease, a quick fix is always sought." Anadi says, "It's the heat of money, it's the heat of desire." Manik listens attentively to Binod's long, fictional analogy from Chhotobakulpur's passenger train No. 305 because the essence of their angry protest is truly clear to them in it. That the insignificant two annas and paisa are not the real issue, but the important matter of the principles involved, is a big deal. Even though they understand it clearly in their minds, they all need to gain the courage to express it properly. Sukhlal knows how to speak to them in simple language, he also understands the main point, but now he is displeased with that domestic language, so it's quite difficult. Trying to extract and explain the principle from that two annas interest in broken, fragmented words, their very reasonable argument seems to be evaporating. Everyone's mood is rising, Binod has managed to drive the main point home to Sukhlal by importing a fictional five-rupee note in place of the broken, tarnished brass glass of cow dung, and they cool down a little, thinking.

Why, when a dirty, crumpled one-rupee note returns as a shiny new metal coin after ten or twenty minutes, doesn't Sukhlal accept it and return Gobhar Mar's brass glass? Why does he insist on collecting one anna, one double, and two broken copper paisas from Gobhar Mar? A day and night have passed, not even a bell has rung, and in a few minutes, Gobhar Mar has returned the money. Interest for that too? Two annas interest, in cash? Sukhlal certainly has the right to take interest. He will surely get two annas interest on that money, whatever he demands. Everyone has given him his due interest without protest. Gobhar Mar has already, twice for Gobhar, brought money to him and repaid him with interest. But why should he pay interest now? In such a short time, when he has returned the money, what interest is there for him again? Binod Mistry says, "Sukhlal, let it go. Imagine I came to you with a five-rupee note." "Sukhlal, is there any change? You said, 'No, there is no change.' You kept the note and took one rupee from me, and then later returned my money. Will you take interest?" Malti borrowed three rupees from Sukhlal, with only a few days left to complete the month. If two days pass the month, his six annas interest will become nothing. Why then is the whole thing in such an uproar? In that den of countless warehouses of all the world's injustices, oppression, irregularities, where people almost starve naked, did such a grave injustice in Sukhlal's behavior shake them? Why? - Sukhlal doesn't want to understand this argument, doesn't want to accept it, - he will give two annas. Not today, after ten days, or even in a month, two annas. "I said to give it today?" This is bookish, inescapable logic of law. The trouble is there too. Sukhlal will not accept right and wrong, justice and injustice, he only knows the law, "Death to you." And do you know the story? Around and around, the same thing, a hundred times. "A five-rupee note!" - He says, "If I take one rupee from a five-rupee note, is there any harm in that? I can't take one rupee, or four rupees, or even five rupees from a five-rupee note, what do I have to do with it? If I borrow rupees, then I will pay interest, yes, the interest, those two annas. But Sukhlal also has his own simple sense of morality, he is not willing to give it up.

When the money changes hands, it will return with interest. There are no complicated calculations involved. He stared intently at the 306 pieces of jewelry. Twice he opened his mouth, tried to say many things softly and warmly, but failed and fell silent. He had been sitting at home for three weeks since the accident at the factory, his hand still bandaged. His wife had started to tie the *ghati* (traditional Bengali headcloth) for him, but not for Sukhlal. He harbored a peculiar aversion towards Sukhlal, not for any other reason, but because he allowed his wife to sleep at Sukhlal Babu's house. Who knows what would happen if that happened, Babu, Lochon's smile was calm and soothing. That's the thing about human stubbornness, it's not about the money. Kishoribabu took half a seer of coarse sugar yesterday, the price was eight and a half annas, he gave a *adhuli* (a small copper coin). I said, "Two more *poyesa* (small coins), Babu? Why, I gave you eight and a half annas." "No, Babu, he gave a *adhuli*, he didn't give two *poyesa*." Babu got angry, "I'm telling you I gave you eight and a half annas, I calculated it myself, and you still won't believe it?" I said, "Alright, Babu, it's just two *poyesa*." Hearing this, Kishoribabu's anger knew no bounds! He retorted sharply, "What do you mean? Am I lying to you? Am I cheating you out of two *poyesa*?" The more I said, "Alright, Babu, it's my mistake, Babu," the more he got angry! He said, "Wait, I'll show you the calculation so you know I'm not lying." I had taken out a ten-rupee note, "When we balance the accounts, you'll see if I'm lying or you're lying." He took the market bag from the servant, emptied his pockets, took out the pack of cigarettes and all the small change, shook the bag and put the coins in front. Then he took out paper and pencil and started balancing the accounts. The morning rush hour crowd was so great, Binod looked at everyone with a serious, unwavering gaze, eagerly asking questions as if he wouldn't be able to move unless he knew all the secrets that lay hidden within. "What's the matter, Babu?" It was clear he was trembling with anger. But his bandaged right hand was right in front of my eyes. Looking at it, Sukhlal said sarcastically, "Why wouldn't you get it? For two annas, all this fuss, it seems so strange to those who don't understand, it seems like a made-up story, no one can just tell it straight. By chance, it goes in the ears of a few people. Like when Binod tells Lochon the details of the incident at the grocery store, Dharani Babu, Bipin Babu, and Avinash Babu also hear it."

Dharanibabu is a lawyer, the other two are servants. He won't get this. — Bana Mali slaps him on the cheek with his left hand. — You scoundrel, a broker! Everyone remains silent, even Sukhlal. He has regained consciousness by now. No one supports Bana Mali, but no one protests either. No one has anything to say because Bana Mali has understood everything well. Avinash says, quarrels and fights are always happening, they just need an opportunity. He had drunk liquor in the morning, that's why— Bana Mali suddenly roars, you won't get this interest, Sukhlal, but Sukhlal understands him. Dhani says sadly, there are so many things inside. Dhani realizes the irony. — You know that yourself! There must be something, otherwise— Bipin says, it could be a matter of a woman. Or for two pennies— The passenger of Chhotobakulpur gets off at 307. The rain has been falling heavily in spurts. If it hadn't been for the rain and being stuck in the shop, Binod's words wouldn't have reached Dhani's ears, nor would there have been time to stand and listen to Lochon's story. As the rain starts again, Dhani stretches his legs to leave, saying, Kishoribabu, but you have shown a lot of temper, you have behaved rudely. You should reduce your weight, bring cheap goods to sell. Whatever you say, the shop is your own mess. Lochon, addressing Binod and the general public present, says, you heard that, right? So today Kishoribabu took the goods from Laxmi Bhandar, I wonder what the matter is! He messed up himself, he got into trouble himself, now he's blaming the public! Two pennies, Kishoribabu? He made a face and balanced the accounts three or four times, counting the money. Then, after a moment's silence, he laughed and said, I made a mistake, Lochon, it's two pence too much! Here, take your two pence. That's it! — Lochon widens his permanent smile even more, — Even for two pence, a lot of things happen if you insist, Babu. What happened next, Lochon? What did Kishoribabu do? 308 In the world of Manik Rachanasamgraha, the line between virtue and sin, self-defense and destruction, is very narrow. This extremely desirable physical and mental state of a girl in a large, temporary settlement, remains for only two days, seeing it stuck in the first stage of youth, and then, driven by the urge to migrate, the skeleton emerges, such is the terrible struggle to survive there.

Not like the rich where you can distract with toys, games, movies, and theaters, keeping them occupied and happy for twenty or thirty years. In the slum, the poor only have their youth and beauty, and that too only for a couple of days, the genuine ornaments for a young girl to become a mother. After that, it's just the wrinkles on the forehead. In this lawless land of plunder, all the greed of the world, even the greed of the landlords, is drawn to plunder the precious few days of a slum girl. The girl's name is Durga, daughter of Notun Mistry. Notun has another daughter, a very young, dirty, and sunburnt girl who has learned to cry loudly at the slightest provocation. Sometimes, she falls into the even dirtier, wet courtyard and cries in her own voice. How much Notun loves his children is known by the fact that ten children are enough to measure it, here there is, and there isn't, there is a floor, but no ceiling, the soft, warm, affectionate love of the slum. As Durga grew up a little more, she became especially attractive to ten men, and Notun's awareness of his responsibility as a father also grew rapidly. As is the eternal custom of genuine affection. It's impossible to prevent a little girl from falling in the courtyard, but it's not that much of a big deal, and there's not much risk of serious injury if she does. Many injuries have to be endured in life, and education starts from now, it will be tough. Even though there was a fear of dying from falling, or at least breaking an arm, leg, or head, Notun would not be indifferent and would certainly take some preventive measures. Even though he is old, he has become aware of Durga. Durga's entire body, from her chest and back to her whole body, has swollen and grown like a jackfruit tree during the monsoon in a short time, creating a sense of impending danger. As a father, what else could he do but keep an eye on his daughter and be careful? What hasn't Notun done to protect and raise his daughter? Because Durga had a fever, he sent her alone to the rich men's house to fetch water and wash dishes, and he didn't even take care of her back. He quickly arranged for his daughter's marriage with Bino. It's not that he has no thoughts for Durga, but his mind and mood have become dull. He doesn't get much enthusiasm in anything.

It's good for the girl to be well, that's what matters. What's the point of being a little spoiled? As long as she doesn't become completely ruined, it's fine. What's the point of keeping her like this? There's no gain in it. In the eagerness to protect the girl, this pride resides in his hermitage, how much of Notun had almost become human. He had almost given up his nature of intoxication and noise, his heart would flutter to return home quickly after work. By being close to Durga, he has discovered that the girl is not only good to look at, but her nature is also very good. The exposed life of the slum. Parents can protect the girl from being vigilant and cautious, but no one can stop the greed from all around. That is only possible in a place called the heart. That's what it becomes.

The girl realizes that a huge desire is brewing all around her - sorrow, misery, humiliation, and neglect, oh girl! Seeing her value in the world suddenly rise in such a strange way, her head spins, she loses her way. But Durga is not like that, she keeps her head, she has the inclination to manage within herself. She looks at her little world, feeling that the world is eager all around, ready to make a great understanding this time. She doesn't like to keep track of this feeling of strange, pleasant restlessness in this thought of her own. If she makes an understanding, she will make it, she is the mistress of not making that understanding. Her father has carefully protected her ownership of herself. Meanwhile, one day Notun gets injured in a machine at the factory and gets long-term rest on the cot in his room. The company doesn't bring up the question of compensation, irrefutable evidence is found that Notun caused the accident entirely through his own fault while drunk, no one else is responsible for the accident. Still, the company arranges for some initial treatment and a few rupees out of kindness. There is some commotion about this, but at that very moment, the efforts to form an opposing union are gaining momentum, and this gets suppressed in the uproar. It's not certain when Notun will leave the bed, or whether he will get a job again. Only Durga has the firm belief. He was working properly in two houses, and he took on work in another house - he would go with Durga and help her and move the work forward a bit.

Despite the fatigue, Durga's hands and feet ache every day. Her mother's condition is worsening day by day, and it's getting harder to manage. Soon, she'll have to stop working altogether. With her meager salary, she barely manages to buy rice flour and survive for a few days, often skipping meals. Her father, calculating that she might be gone tomorrow, gives her her advance salary, keeping some for himself. Otherwise, if she suddenly quits without notice, the women of the household will have to clean the dishes. If she doesn't repay the previous month's salary by the fifth or sixth, and then leaves the job abruptly, they'll have to clean the dishes anyway.

Her stomach won't be full, her body won't be covered with a sari, no hobby will be fulfilled, and she'll struggle daily for food and water, enduring mosquito bites on her feet and the itching of sweat all over her body in the humid air. Yet, life seems sweet and enjoyable to this slum girl. Her father works in a factory, and her mother cleans dishes in the homes of the wealthy, earning a few pennies, which Durga spends on food, taking care of her father. Sukhlal's lecherous gaze and silent, inactive indifference are noticed, and the old maid is driven mad trying to keep her happy like a queen. Hearing his story, she wrinkles her nose and smiles faintly in an attempt to understand others' feelings, then moves on.

As soon as she starts working in the first house, Durga's mother begins to scold her in a suppressed voice: "Move your hands, move your hands, you lazy girl! You've become like an elephant after eating, can't you move your hands?" Saying this, she clatters a couple of dishes, picks up a bucket of water, and heads for the room—to cook and feed her father. Durga moves her hands even faster, clattering even louder, saying, "I'm doing more than enough work, you say!" Tears well up in her eyes for a moment. The 310 pieces of trinkets that Binood secretly gave her are quietly hidden away. There was no need to light the stove that day, there's no rice to cook, how can you cook rice with just boiling water in an empty pot? What can you chew on, what are these things—imitation flowers, colorful glass bangles, beaded necklaces—how will these fill a human stomach, how will they quench the fire of hunger? The mother sits in the corner of the room, taking the girl in her lap and rocking her.

From Notun, curses and abuse pour forth. His two daughters—Joan and Magira—have been devouring him like elephants for so long, he hasn't been able to manage two consecutive meals. The big grocery store is playing loud music, audible from here. Meanwhile, someone nearby is playing a bansuri, a flute, with piercing, soulful notes right next to his ear. Binod knows what's coming next. A few days ago, he had a fight with Durga. He stares silently at Durga's contorted face. Seeing her gaunt, emaciated appearance and disheveled state, he feels himself to be Binod's older, weaker, and more helpless. They both know this isn't the right thing to do; Durga's mother won't stay with friends, and Mitra Babu needs Durga. Notun once flogged Durga's back for sending her off to work alone, and today he's forcing Durga to take the job at those friends' house alone. Lying in bed in a lame and helpless state, hoping to recover from fasting and go to work, he's starting to feel the looming dark clouds of despair. Notun isn't just lame; his mother will be entering the picture tomorrow. Does the daughter of a slum laborer rely solely on her father and brothers like the daughters of the Babus? Even at his age, he feels that if anything happens to them, it will be a complete disaster, and they won't find refuge anywhere. What was just a matter of concern has now turned into a terrifying reality for Binod's factory strike! What a fate Durga has! At this very moment, the commotion starts in Binod's factory, and the strike drags on for two days. What about Mitra's house? Forget about his mother and home, he'll get a house. He'll get a house. He'll get it at Mishi Babu's house; their work is lighter. Binod was also lying on his cot, muttering to himself. He was beaten by his mother for going on strike at the factory gate. Durga, in a state of anger, rage, and excitement, wasn't in the mood to listen to anyone's complaints. Durga didn't listen to what her mother said. Her parents lifted their hands to slap her, but Notun, half-asleep, couldn't find anything within reach, so he threw the earthen pot at her. The pot was full of yogurt, which Durga's mother had brought from a wealthy house. The pot was used for Notun's spitting. Notun says hopefully, "Whatever happens, let it happen. Let her go." Binod is a lonely man; what thoughts would he have if he didn't get caught up in this commotion?

Durga's mother says, "Where are you going at this hour? Can a mother manage three households alone? I'm going to cut off the girl Chulokchhi's head and make her bleed to get the pot filled with water. What other calculations are there when death from starvation is approaching? When she reaches the final stage, she'll have to jump either this way or that. Noton's face is covered in beard and mustache, his eyes sunken. With burning eyes and a trembling voice, he says, "Do two people need a bed in one room? You take care of two houses, Durga. The passenger from Chhotobakulpur has arrived at 311." In anger, frustration, and excitement, Durga is trembling; she's not in a state to listen to anyone. "Listen? Today is the last time I'll say it. Say it now. Stay today. We can reconsider tomorrow. But go, Sukhlal, bring it back. Buy food with the money. I haven't eaten all day, nor have my siblings. What will we eat today? What do you say? It's getting late!" The mother is getting ready. "I need you, Durga. Do you want to starve, or do you want me to starve? After saying goodbye to Binod, Durga slowly walks towards Sukhlal's abode. Sukhlal, who has also been watching her with wide eyes and showing his teeth. What other way is there to survive if not fight? Binod silently thinks for a while. Standing there, Durga again calculates everything in her mind, considering all the possibilities. Her neck droops slightly under the weight of her thoughts. While thinking, she wonders, what's the point of breaking this man and his struggle? What interest will remain? It would be better if he could somehow continue for a few days, he would remain, and their future would remain. Nothing has happened. Make up your mind, I'll find my way. What happened again? Binod says, "Okay, you go home, Durga, I'm taking the food. I heard something happened to you?" Binod's voice rises sharply, "What will happen? She beat me. You go home." Durga sighs heavily. Now, after all this time, the man has caught her eye. After standing silently for a while, Durga says softly, "What will happen if you go alone?" Binod doesn't answer. He stares blankly at a corner of the room.