Bhudeb Roy did well that day. In the evening, after every little scrap had been sold, he plodded back to his house, happily rubbing the folds of flesh on the back of his neck. He called his sons into a room and passed around wads of notes. He smiled as he watched them sensuously running their fingers over the rustling paper. That’s right, he said, his tiny eyes bulging. You can’t ever know what money means unless you feel it.
Later, he assembled his twenty or so young men outside his house and handed out bonuses. They had hardly dared expect so much money so soon. They burst into cheers — jug-jug-jiyo, Bhudeb-dada, jug-jug-jiyo — and ran off to their shacks and shanties to buy food for their families. That was perhaps the only false note in the whole day. They were gone by the time Bhudeb Roy had heaved himself up the stairs to his balcony so that he would be able to acknowledge their cheers properly. He found himself waving and bowing at an empty courtyard. But he didn’t let it spoil his mood; later he could teach them to do things properly. At that moment he had nothing but goodwill for the world. In his elation, he even told one of his sons to take a sackful of coconuts over to Balaram’s house.
You see, Toru-debi told Balaram in the kitchen that night while they were eating their dinner, in his own way Bhudeb-babu really likes you. He respects you; he wants your friendship. He’s a nice man in his own way just like everybody else. If only you read a little less and knew the world a little more.
Balaram frowned and would not look at her. She turned to Alu, who had finished and was sitting quietly on his piri licking his fingers. You tell him, she appealed. You tell him, because he won’t listen to me. Why can’t he just live and let live? Why can’t we just live in peace like everyone else?
Balaram bit grimly into a fried fish-head. Toru-debi looked helplessly at him.
After he had washed his hands Alu went back into the kitchen. Balaram had gone back to his study. Don’t worry, Alu said to Toru-debi. Nothing will happen. She bit her lip and shook her head, trying to keep her tears back. Something will happen, she said. I know it will; I’ve seen it in my dreams. But still I’ll do what I can to stop it. I’ll keep on trying as long as I can.
So the next evening Toru-debi decided to go and meet Parboti-debi. It was a long time since she had left the house, and years since she had been to visit anyone.
Sari chosen, face powdered, she picked her way down the path mumbling: First I’ll say, Parboti, where have you been? haven’t seen you, haven’t seen you for months. And all that. Then: Such nice coconuts … Then: What about some blouses? I’ll make you some blouses. Six.
One of Bhudeb Roy’s sons, swinging on the gate, spotted her coming down the path in a white sari and peacock-green blouse, swinging a brown shopping-bag, her hair hanging down in knots, her face like a streaky white mask. He called out to his brothers and they all ran out to the gate and watched her, sniggering.
They led her into a room that was crowded with cloth-covered sofas and pictures of Bhudeb Roy. She sat down, clutching her empty bag, and said: Parboti …?
She’s sick, said the oldest boy, fingering his moustache. She can’t come out.
Toru-debi waited for ten minutes, surrounded by the boys, while a cup of tea and biscuits were fetched for her. What should I do? she thought, pulling at the knots in her hair. Go away? Stay? How’ll I tell Parboti? She drank her tea so fast it scalded her tongue, and rushed out. She stood under the balcony and shouted up: Parboti, I’ll make you six blouses. Tell Bhudeb-babu. It’s all right: six blouses.
Walking worriedly down the path, swinging her bag, she thought: I’ve done what I can; it’s in Ma Kali’s hands now. Soon she was back listening to the reassuring drone of her sewing machine and the blouses were forgotten.
A few days later the whole village learnt that Bhudeb Roy had been given several thousand rupees by an insurance company as compensation for the burnt parts of the school. Everybody was taken by surprise. Very few people had heard of insurance, and almost no one knew that buildings could be insured. Certainly nobody had known that the school buildings were insured. The question which flew around the banyan tree and the tea-shop and Bolai-da’s shop was when had Bhudeb Roy insured the building.
Soon a curious crowd was paying daily court to Bhudeb Roy. He enjoyed it immensely but made sure his hired men were never too far away to prevent indiscipline. People brought him disputes to settle, questions to answer, and they heard many of his views on the world, but nobody had the courage to put the real question to him.
In the end, by common consent it fell to Bolai-da, because ever since Bolai-da had accompanied Bhudeb Roy on his visit to his patch of toddy palms people had assumed that he had a special claim on Bhudeb Roy. They pushed Bolai-da forward and urged him on, but it took him a while to pick up the courage. Finally, one evening, with fingers prodding him in the small of his back, Bolai-da cleared his throat. By that time, the years had twisted Bolai-da’s face incurably sideways and curved it outwards, like a crescent moon. His lower jaw had moved an inch or so away from the upper, so that he had to speak out of a gap at the corner of his mouth. Bhudeb-babu, he said, squinting with concentration, tell me, when exactly did you insure the school?
Bhudeb Roy, chewing slowly on a plug of tobacco, said: Exactly fifteen days before the crash.
His electrified audience gasped. All those years to do it in, or not to do it in, and he had done it fifteen days before the crash.
Bolai-da swallowed and sucked his teeth. Bhudeb-babu, he said, tell us, did you know?
Bhudeb Roy did not answer. He looked away, into the far distance, and his bulging jaw chewed steadily sideways, while a smile slowly worked its way across it.
That night they went back to Bolai-da’s shop in awestruck silence. Was it possible? No, it couldn’t be. Even Bhudeb Roy couldn’t have shot down a plane all by himself. But, then, said Bolai-da wagging his head, it was certainly more than mere coincidence.
The very next day, with his insurance money in his pocket, Bhudeb Roy hired a truck and took his sons and his twenty young men to Naboganj. He bought them T-shirts and a few knuckledusters and handed out another bonus. On its way back the truck scattered a triumphant cloud of dust over the village, while Bhudeb Roy sat massively enthroned on it, surrounded by his sons and the young men, acknowledging their cheers: jug-jug-jiyo, Bhudeb-dada, jug-jug-jiyo.
All the other hungry young men, sitting under the banyan tree thinking of ways to finance cycle-rickshaws, were lashed by envy when they saw the bright T-shirts flash by. They cursed the fate which had singled out their onetime friends while leaving them stranded under the banyan tree, as hungry as ever. That night they begged Bolai-da: You talk to Bhudeb-babu. He listens to you. Tell him he needs some more people. Bolai-da blew through the corner of his mouth and shook his head: No, no, how can I? And, besides, why me? But of course he was flattered that they had chosen him to be their spokesman, and it did not take them very much longer to persuade him to lead them to Bhudeb Roy’s house.
So, in a procession, with flaming torches, they marched down the lanes, shouting: jug-jug-jiyo, Bhudeb-dada, jug-jug-jiyo. The twenty young men, who were lounging on Bhudeb Roy’s veranda, heard them when they turned into the red-dust path which led to the house. They were not slow to recognize a threat. Snatching up their sticks and their knuckledusters, they rushed out of the house, like wolves swarming to defend a kill. Bhudeb Roy’s sons, who lacked their fine streamlining, floundered after them, panting.