he thought was the leg of the table. But it was hard and muscular and writhed against his upper arm. Too late, he realized it was a snake. He jerked back his hand and heard a loud spitting hiss followed by a needling stab on his right wrist. Shamol’s knees buckled; he grabbed the table to steady himself and slowly crumpled to the floor. A milky film floated before his eyes, his tongue twisted to the roof of his mouth and ribbons of white froth dribbled down his chin. The last thing Shamol Roy felt was a tremendous crushing pain in his chest and the sensation of being sucked underwater.
Twenty minutes later, he lay dead in the jute godown, surrounded by the rats and the filth. His hand clutched his pocket that held the six pencil stubs wrapped in a blotting paper he had planned on taking home for his son.
CHAPTER
13
The disheveled man waiting for Biren in the headmaster’s office looked vaguely familiar. His hair was uncombed and he was still in his night pajamas. It finally dawned on Biren he was their neighbor, Apu’s husband, a man he had probably seen five times in his life and never spoken to even once.
“Mr. Bhowmik will take you home,” said the headmaster, fiddling with a bunch of papers on his desk. He did not explain why. From the look on their faces, Biren knew something was wrong. It must be something to do with his granny, he thought. Maybe she had died. Old people died quickly and suddenly after all. Like Kanai’s granny. Kanai said one day she was chewing betel nuts on the front steps and chatting with the neighbors and the next day she was gone.
On the boat ride back home the man turned his face away toward the jute fields and made no attempt at conversation. He was not one to talk much, from what Biren remembered. If Granny had died, why hadn’t his father come to get him? It was not like Father to send a stranger in his place.
Maybe he could trick Apu’s husband into conversation.
“I wonder if it will rain tonight,” Biren remarked, peering up at the clouds. “This changing weather is terrible. It is making us all sick. My granny had a high fever last night. She was terribly unwell.”
The man coughed and gave a brief nod but did not say anything. The silence was getting sticky. The boat rowed past the backwaters.
“I went fishing out to the backwaters yesterday,” Biren said brightly. “Kanai the fisherman caught a big chital fish a few days ago. Fifteen kilos, imagine!” Biren cast a sly glance to see if the man was impressed, but he just crossed his arms over his chest. “But it was hopeless for me,” Biren continued. “I did not even catch a two-inch pooty fish! It is this rough weather, you know. When it gets too windy, the fish go down too deep and don’t bite. It was a good thing we decided to come home...” His last few words dribbled off. His pitcher of conversation was running dry.
Finally, as the boat pulled up to Momati Ghat, the man cleared his throat. “You will stay at our house today,” he said. Biren was startled to hear his voice. It was low and throaty. Something warned him not to ask further questions.
They entered Apu’s house through the front door, which had a different street entrance from their own. Nitin was already there, behaving in a manner that would have earned him a sound paddling from Shibani. A half-packed trunk lay open on the floor. Nitin and Apu’s two little girls, Ruby and Ratna, had pulled out an expensive silk sari from the trunk and ran shrieking through the house as they trailed the leaf-green silk behind them. Biren remembered it as the same sari he had delivered the day before.
A toothless granny with collapsed cheeks, her hair coiled into a walnut-size bun, sat on the bed with a string of prayer beads wrapped in her hand. She called after them in a wavery voice, “Careful, careful.”
“Ma!” yelled Apu’s husband loudly in the old woman’s ear. “I am going out. Keep an eye on the children, do you hear? Don’t let
Twenty minutes later, he lay dead in the jute godown, surrounded by the rats and the filth. His hand clutched his pocket that held the six pencil stubs wrapped in a blotting paper he had planned on taking home for his son.
CHAPTER
13
The disheveled man waiting for Biren in the headmaster’s office looked vaguely familiar. His hair was uncombed and he was still in his night pajamas. It finally dawned on Biren he was their neighbor, Apu’s husband, a man he had probably seen five times in his life and never spoken to even once.
“Mr. Bhowmik will take you home,” said the headmaster, fiddling with a bunch of papers on his desk. He did not explain why. From the look on their faces, Biren knew something was wrong. It must be something to do with his granny, he thought. Maybe she had died. Old people died quickly and suddenly after all. Like Kanai’s granny. Kanai said one day she was chewing betel nuts on the front steps and chatting with the neighbors and the next day she was gone.
On the boat ride back home the man turned his face away toward the jute fields and made no attempt at conversation. He was not one to talk much, from what Biren remembered. If Granny had died, why hadn’t his father come to get him? It was not like Father to send a stranger in his place.
Maybe he could trick Apu’s husband into conversation.
“I wonder if it will rain tonight,” Biren remarked, peering up at the clouds. “This changing weather is terrible. It is making us all sick. My granny had a high fever last night. She was terribly unwell.”
The man coughed and gave a brief nod but did not say anything. The silence was getting sticky. The boat rowed past the backwaters.
“I went fishing out to the backwaters yesterday,” Biren said brightly. “Kanai the fisherman caught a big chital fish a few days ago. Fifteen kilos, imagine!” Biren cast a sly glance to see if the man was impressed, but he just crossed his arms over his chest. “But it was hopeless for me,” Biren continued. “I did not even catch a two-inch pooty fish! It is this rough weather, you know. When it gets too windy, the fish go down too deep and don’t bite. It was a good thing we decided to come home...” His last few words dribbled off. His pitcher of conversation was running dry.
Finally, as the boat pulled up to Momati Ghat, the man cleared his throat. “You will stay at our house today,” he said. Biren was startled to hear his voice. It was low and throaty. Something warned him not to ask further questions.
They entered Apu’s house through the front door, which had a different street entrance from their own. Nitin was already there, behaving in a manner that would have earned him a sound paddling from Shibani. A half-packed trunk lay open on the floor. Nitin and Apu’s two little girls, Ruby and Ratna, had pulled out an expensive silk sari from the trunk and ran shrieking through the house as they trailed the leaf-green silk behind them. Biren remembered it as the same sari he had delivered the day before.
A toothless granny with collapsed cheeks, her hair coiled into a walnut-size bun, sat on the bed with a string of prayer beads wrapped in her hand. She called after them in a wavery voice, “Careful, careful.”
“Ma!” yelled Apu’s husband loudly in the old woman’s ear. “I am going out. Keep an eye on the children, do you hear? Don’t let
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