Many years elapsed after that day, each new day pushed the memories to the dark recesses of the mind, just like the dust that swathes a ceiling fan hides its true color. Growing older, feeling the crow’s feet near my eyes, I wondered how old Ma must have grown, her age softly, hesitantly treading through the threshold of her white, rope-like hair. Even so, I hadn’t disclosed that incident to anyone in all these years, not my father, not anyone. Ma had never, however, forbidden it, the two of us just never really spoke about it. I could still sense a tremulous prohibition to it.

It was habitual at that time for me to accompany Ma to her paternal home twice a year, a place that the grown-ups called the Santhal Parganas. The platform of the small station was levelled to the ground, the signal posts scattered around, as if racing towards the forests. We took a tonga alighting on the station. Darkness wanted to descend hurriedly onto the wintry road, snaking its way through our skins. I shivered, looking at the distant hills from inside the tonga, a silent isolation that wasn’t felt in the two-room apartment at Behala. But immediately following that fear, I would think to myself, oh that’s the marketplace that cropped up thrice weekly on this very path. It had everything from vegetables, to cocks- pigeons- goats, stationery, combs and mirrors, shawls and sarees, a smattering of mahua lovers on one side, a snack made of chickpeas, onions and lime served in newspaper packets or Sal-leaf containers, mahua swilling in plastic glasses and grimy bottles. I felt uneasy at their raucous laughter and arguments. Crossing the marketplace, I saw the mahua glasses in poor Christian girls’ hands turn colorful, girls who threw the excitement in their inquisitive eyes and giggly laughter our way, their dusty noise dissipating in the wheels of the tonga that finally carried me straight to my maternal uncle’s home. The fear of the hills for me was, therefore, naturally enmeshed in the memory of the marketplace.

And then there were the yellow fields and the Mahua forest. The sticky skies would rush on to my shoulders with an intimacy as soon as I headed to the roof, the setting sun was like a colossal bloodied presence right in the middle of my chest. Like the agonizing death of a rose, the sun would melt and disappear into the Sal and Mahua forest at the back. A dried canal, a field that would soon have fires lit, the flames of which would scorch my quiet mother’s hands, walking in silence on the roof. And from the room downstairs, my grandfather, the retired stationmaster, would drone monotonously, “Sati, Aparna, are you getting the tea ready?” Ma used to love wearing red alta on her feet.  

The town was ruinous and beautiful. There was a considerable Christian settlement here before independence, but most of their children had flown to America or Canada and settled there. Most of the middle-class Christians in my childhood, who congregated for the Sunday evening mass in the twin churches, were precariously coasting the gallery of age. It was a time when the town clad itself more in a strange indifference than love. Yet, this very town, opening up its folds to me, took me to the branches of trees where green pigeons would flock noisily, to the boisterous markets of the Adivasis. The irrigation canal beneath the heavy rock that would gurgle feebly somewhere in the middle of the forest, couldn’t really be called a brook, because it had whispered to me that it could bend the tender soil completely in the monsoon. Sometimes I would spot wild parrots, madges, partridges, and nightingales. And if the fortunes smiled, junglefowls and wild birds.

Piku, my maternal cousin, was my playmate when I was five-six-seven years old as were the Santhal children of the neighborhood. I would play marbles or football with them or walk to the station. I had never seen the post office, beside the station, open. I sat on the sleepy platform, half of which was swallowed by the forest, and hurled pebbles at the train line, sometimes noticed a spark accompany its thud, or counted the number of compartments if a goods train went by. The window of the stationmaster’s small room rattled with the train’s bulk on the fishplates, nuts and bolts and piston, its wheels biting into the pebbles, the bogies following the engine silently in a funerary procession, slowly, continuously lugging till my ears tired of the sound. I would often hear the bogies of the goods train plod through the railway lines of the endless nights, one after another, the rise and fall of twinkling lights groggily sending me to oblivion. Jolting awake, I would see my sleeping mother and the senseless Piku lying next to me, their drool-soaked pillows underneath their comforting lips, beckoning the dull ants. 

That day, in the afternoon, I was practicing my skills with glass marbles on the roof. Piku had a fever and was resting inside, the house had turned silent in the isolated afternoon and I was bored. A madge was tweeting from inside the huge almond tree that had willfully bent on the roof. The afternoon sun gleamed in places. Ma suddenly came up to the roof, saying, “Tublu, let’s go for a walk, shall we?” We were supposed to return to Kolkata early the next morning. She was wearing a white cotton Tant saree with black dots. I could see darkness peering from the cold damp earth at a distance. Ma laughed unlatching the garden gate, “When I was younger, I used to picnic a lot in the field behind the church at Duffrin Lane. I haven’t been there in ages.”

Considering the math, I was born when Ma was twenty-six, so she must have been at least thirty-three or thirty-four at that time. She could, of course, have been considered a lovely, youthful being in her prime; yet, time has its own calculations, its own pace. And this woman, whose calm youth was being discounted with the onslaught of time, must have scampered through hereabouts like a young chicken. The only things that were revelatory of time were a white hair or two, a slightly heavier frame and the place where her skin inevitably folded beside her nose. And only these brought about a change in the terms of address that went from a simple ‘Sati’ to ‘Sati Devi’, she went from being called a Didi to pishi, aunt. Haven’t we welcomed age this way as well? However, it was also true that Ma still retained the vestiges of youth. One could easily mistake her thick hair for the skin of a blackberry. She had really red lips, and she didn’t even have paan! Everyone in the neighbourhood knew Ma as Lahiri Babu’s beautiful daughter. And, in Kolkata, as the beauty of Behala’s Pathakpara, the woman was practically insufferable! 

“Which way is the Duffrin Lane?”

“It is on the way to the bazar. Didn’t you see it while coming here? There’s a big church, behind which lies the field full of wild flowers. We had our school there.”

We kept walking through the uneven paths for quite some time. The yellowing sun was still sweetly warm on our backs. Ma bought me a cake from a bakery, its colourful wrapper had an image of a frock-clad girl. The sweet smell of the fruits burst inside my mouth. Somewhat surprised, I gazed at the peon riding his cycle, distributing letters door to door.

“Isn’t the post office shut?” 

“So what? Does that mean the letters would stop coming?”

“So, did you get any letters in your childhood?”

“Lots! Mrs. Green’s daughter used to be my friend. She went away to Australia at the age of ten with her parents. She would write me letters regularly. The paper was so lovely, smelled of chocolate when opened.” Ma skipped over the holes and ditches. Her saree was pulled up, its folds and border fastened to her waist. The two of us walked along two sides of the street. Ma had a small bamboo branch in her hand, with which she hit the bushes and brambles forcefully. I shouted, “Don’t hit the plants. They’ll be in pain.”

“And who told you this?”

“I have learnt this in school.”

“Nonsense! The plants feel more alive.”

A ruined house appeared in my line of sight, covered in ivy, its color almost a burnt black. “Do you see that Tublu? It’s been like that since my childhood. Ghosts inhabit that house.” A black-currant tree shrouded the broken tiles, a goat grazed in the wilderness of the garden. It bounced off the wall once it heard our voices. 

“Mamoni?”

 “Yes?”

“I need to pee.”

“Pee here then, nobody will see you.”

A little shy, I said, “Move away then.”

Ma giggled, “Fool! Look at your tantrums, eh!” A certain mystery stuck to her lips. The intended sobriety in her last expression didn’t quite reach its fruition. Wiping my hands on the bark of the Indian plum tree, I came out. My knees below my shorts had scraped against the brambles but Ma was oblivious to all that. She mumbled to herself, “This house used to have electricity in my childhood. We would ring the calling bell and run away but we never saw anyone open the door”. Ma had just painted her feet with alta before leaving and her flip flops were stained in the blood of the red dye. It wouldn’t wash off easily. We came upon the large church at the crossroads. Its architecture was breath-taking, the shape of mother Mary carved onto its doors. A wood-beetle droned on in the silence of the place. A crow sat on the cross. Ma pouted in dismay, “The doors to the church won’t open before evening. We will come here on our way back.”

The place was quite isolated, a few houses dotted here and there.  We came to a stop near a wooden gate. There was a tiny garden growing winter vegetables. Mango and lychee trees bent to one side, beneath which roamed a few hens. It was a one-floor house the color of burnt brick. Two birds, that were engrossed in building a nest on its verandah, flew away as soon as they discerned an unfamiliar sound. There was a broken swing, two chairs in the verandah, their velvet cushions stained with dirt. Ma called out, “Sam! Samuel!”

“Who’s Sam?”

“Wait, you’ll see.”

The door opened after Ma called out twice or thrice. A plump, middle-aged woman came out and peered with her hands above her eyes, trying to place who she saw. “Who is it?”—the woman was dark, her saree a little unkempt, clearly, she had been sleeping. Her enunciation showed that she wasn’t Bengali. 

Ma stepped forward, “It’s me, Sati. Katie di, do you recognise me? It’s been too long.”

Confused, the woman blurted, “Sati?”

“The daughter of the Lahiris. I used to be Sam’s friend.”

“Sa-w-ti!” the woman raised her eyebrows in surprise, “Seeing you after so long! Where are you these days? Kolkata? You haven’t been here in so long!” saying this, she looked in my direction, “Your son? He looks exactly like you!”

“Tublu, introduce yourself. She’s your aunt, Katie.”

Aunt Katie took my hand and brought me over to the Verandah. “You are a beautiful child! I haven’t seen you before. Do you like jam, Tublu? Let me get you some jam and scrambled eggs.”

“Sit! Let us chat a little. Isn’t Sam here?”

“He’s here alright. Sleeping. He’ll be really surprised to see you, you know!” Aunt Katie kept clucking like the hens in the garden, swaying this way and that, moving inside and out, a pale happiness tinging her face. Ma looked at me with an uncertain smile. A man came out at that moment. His skin color was as dark and glossy as ebony. My mother’s age or perhaps slightly older. He was a little over six feet tall, well-built, his curly hair gave off a pure smell, he had soft eyes. I still remember his long eyelashes. He was wearing a shirt on his pajamas. He smiled, one that reached his eyes, the skin around them crinkling like the folds of a bedspread, “Sati, how are you? Seeing you after a long time.”

Ma smiled as well, “But you haven’t changed still. Sleeping in the afternoons as always.”

“You don’t say! A really bad habit he has! He goes to sleep with the radio on. It’s the morning school which is the real problem, you see. He comes back home in the afternoon, gobbles a full plate of rice and sleeps soundly”, Aunt Katie gurgled, “Doesn’t even attend the Sunday mass. Lazes around since morning. Look at his disgusting paunch.”

“Ah Didi, stop it! Why don’t you get Sati and I some coffee?” He looked at me now, “And what is your name? What do you want to eat? I am your uncle, Sam. You can just call me Sam.”

Pointing at the hens, I said, “Do those stay here?”

“Oh yes, with their children and grandparents, the entire family. Why don’t you go and get to know them? They won’t harm you, they’re very docile.”

I jumped to where the hens were under the shade of the tree, and seeing me, the hens cackled scared witless and scattered in all directions. The crop fields in the distance slowly changed their hues from green, to yellow and finally to golden in the fading sun, and I noticed people moving across like ants. The fields were busy with people harvesting paddy and millets. The shade of the mango tree was cool, the place lay fenced by unkempt bushes. There was a chicken coop in one corner, a few chicks looking out from within the darkness, a little lost. Sam warned, “Don’t touch them though. They will peck you.”

Even though I didn’t look back, I could sense Ma and Sam sitting next to each other in the verandah chairs. Their quiet happiness touched my back, babbling its way from their direction. Ma remarked, “You really have grown fat.”

“Leave it. Your husband didn’t come?”

“He doesn’t really get a leave from his duties as a doctor. Do you still teach at the Campbells’ school?”

“Yes, pretty much. It’s a comfortable job. The students are obedient. Not a whole lot of work load.”

“You are very lazy!”

Sam laughed throatily, “You haven’t changed at all Sati. Not a bit.”

“Do you remember the last time we had met right after my marriage? You had come to Kolkata for someone’s treatment.”

“Yes, a teacher in my school. It’s sad that he didn’t survive. It’s been ten years since then, hasn’t it?”

“You didn’t stay in touch after that. Why?”

There was no answer this time. I sat absorbed feeding grains to the chicken, who by now had courage enough to fluff up their feathers. The daylight had faded by then. The sun, taking on a rosy hue, was skipping from one peak to another. The entire garden floor lay covered in dead petals with the slightest of winds. The outer wall of the house, facing the street lay covered with moss, beyond which hung a shining cross. Its radiance bounced off my eyes. Underneath the cross was signed “Our Father”. A painful cry reached me from a distance. It seemed to me at that moment that this primal creation would break and resurrect itself in a primitive rhythm. The garden shook fervently but the verandah remained calm. 

“I have been telling you since the college days to come over to Kolkata”, said Ma, “There are many more opportunities there.”

“Since when have you become an opportunist?” Sam’s voice was as soft as the fruitcake. 

Quite some time went by. The few scraps of words couldn’t string together the emptiness between them. The sweater formed of inconsistent words lay spread on the garden floor, a strange stillness occupying its empty pockets. Mumbling to herself, Aunt Katie brought them coffee, freshly baked bread and jam for me. The hens quietly entered their coop, their heads downcast, a light mist spread on the garden floor. A few lights twinkled at a distance bidding farewell to the dusk. Ma and Sam were sitting wordlessly, in silence, and insects hovered thickly around the warm bulb of the verandah. Ma’s lips were unmoving, but I could make out a wave of words, waiting to crash at the surroundings like a huge column of water. 

Sam asked, “Do you drink wine, Sati?”

“What?” Ma exclaimed a little shaken, “These things aren’t really allowed.”

“This won’t do. Just coffee won’t do. It’s our festival today after all!” Sam laughed sincerely. Aunt Katie seemed to burst at the seams in glee, “We have a visitor after so long. Say Sam, will you bring out that old Italian wine?”

“But I have not tasted wine. What if I have a headache?” Ma laughed somewhat distracted. 

“Why you have had wine in this house quite a few times before! You remember? All of us used to drink together after the carol?”

“I am older now, Sam. I have a son now.” I wasn’t able to see Ma’s face, it was shaded in the darkness. The sign “Our Father” beneath the shining cross now seemed nothing more than a roughly-hewn string of letters, that coursed through the spine like a stream, something that would evoke to the touch the source of everything forbidden. 

Aunt Katie fetched the bottle and glasses from inside the room. I was a little shocked, “Mamoni, will you drink?” I assumed that only bad people drank spirits. 

Sam ruffled my hair, “I have a really good chocolate for you. Wait, I’ll get it.”

A little hesitant with the glass in her hand, Ma took a tiny sip. One, two, put her glass down, then a definite third after picking it back up. Sighing, she looked at Sam with large eyes. Sam looked at her steadily, his neck tilted. Finishing her glass, Aunt Katie laughed whimsically, “Let’s sing the carol like before, hey Sati, like old times?”

“You say anything! Haven’t we grown up?”

Before finishing her next glass, Aunt Katie started weeping, “No one comes here anymore. Everyone has left, scattered away, leaving us behind. This place feels so empty, none of you will truly understand.” Drunk, Katie wept in fits and starts. I was busy devouring my chocolate in one corner, her tears didn’t touch me. I saw Ma and Sam looking at one another, half-empty glasses in both their hands, their fingers clutching the cold glass tightly, neither taking a sip, as if all their fingers desired was to hold on to the cool pleasantness of the glass. Sam’s face was quiet in its stillness, resembling the peaceful visage of a prisoner whose head was about to be chopped off in a guillotine and who had made his peace with the entirety of it, yet his face still teemed with unarticulated words. Meanwhile Aunt Katie sobbed, “I feel like making a turkey roast again! You and Sam on two sides, like before, hugging me and dancing, the church bell chiming the sounds of Christmas, the two of you forcing down wine into my mouth from your glasses. Will this ever happen again?”

Quite a while later, when the darkness had descended thickly, Ma sighed, “Have to leave now.”

“Let me take you back home.”

“No, not today”, nodded Ma. Sam didn’t persuade either.

“You will come again, won’t you?”, Aunt Katie clasped my hand in hers. Ma didn’t answer. 

A host of fireflies lit the two ends of the dark street. The creamy mist touched my face like milk skin. The wintry hills looked bare, almost frightening, shorn off the millets. In that darkness I couldn’t seem to recall the path we had traversed to get here. We were supposed to visit the church on our way back but that didn’t happen. Aunt Katie accompanied us some distance, talking incessantly, before Ma sent her back. Glancing back, I saw Sam standing underneath that yellow bulb with its throng of insects, looking at us. Ma was unusually quiet. Aunt Katie had shown her pictures from the old album. I wouldn’t have recognized Ma in a skirt if I hadn’t seen her dense hair frame her face. I needed to pee again. When I told Ma about this, she laughed and ruffled my hair. 

Ma did not forbid it, yet somehow, I sensed that I couldn’t speak of that day with anyone. Not my father, not grandfather, no one. I have been to this town only twice thereafter. My maternal uncles sold their property here and settled in Kolkata. We never met Sam after that day. Ma never spoke of this. I never mentioned it to anyone either. Eventually, Ma has grown older, her cheeks have wrinkled, her eyes need spectacles when threading the needle. But I have never observed a desire in her to weave the words “Our Father” in a sweater and spread them in that garden. Nonetheless, even without breathing a word to anyone, I haven’t been able to forget the incident. Sam and Sati had sat facing each other, their fingers cradling the cool glass. When the hens had retreated to their coop, heads hung low in the darkness, all chaos had ceased. Underneath a starless sky, devoid of planets, the first words of the very first sentence of Adikavita, our very first poem, began as an act of prohibition.