style="font-size:15px;"> 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 them out of the house.”
Biren tugged the man’s hand. “Can I go home?”
“Not now,” said the man. “Your Apumashi will come to get you both later.”
“Where is Apumashi?”
“She’s gone...out,” said the man. “You all stay here. You must not leave the house.”
He turned around and left.
Four-year-old Ruby came running up to Biren and hugged him tightly around the waist. “Oh, my husband! My sweet husband!” she cried. She grabbed his hand and kissed it feverishly.
“I am not your husband,” Biren said gruffly, snatching his hand away. He disengaged her arms from around his waist.
“But of course you are,” Ruby replied in a sugary voice. She gave him a sly, coquettish look. “You are, you are, my handsome husband.” She twirled her skirt and sang. “We are going to get married. I will wear a red sari and we will exchange garlands. Oh, I love my husband! We are getting married.”
“Getting married! Getting married!” shrieked the other two, flinging the folds of the sari up in the air.
“Careful, careful,” chirruped the granny.
It was strange, but there didn’t seem to be another soul in the house.
“Granny!” yelled Biren in the old lady’s ear. “Where is everybody?”
“Everybody?” pondered the granny. “Everybody must be doing puja.”
The puja room was empty, the sandalwood joss sticks burned down to a bed of ash.
Biren grabbed Nitin as he ran by and shook him by the shoulder. “Nitin, who dropped you here? Where is Ma?”
Nitin shrugged off his brother. Reckless and out of control, he ran off screaming behind Ratna.
The kitchen looked as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. On the floor were several brass platters of grated coconut, sesame seeds, mounds of jaggery and a large basin of rice flour batter. Biren turned to the window, which faced the pumpkin patch, beyond which he could see the rooftop of his house in the distance. A small slice of their courtyard was visible. He saw several men in the courtyard but could not make out their faces.
Then he heard a strange sound. What was it? It was between a howl and a moan. Then came another and another. There were waves of them. It sounded like a dying animal in mortal pain. Maybe it was a wounded jackal in the taro patch. Biren made a note to himself to look for the poor creature when he got home.
What a damned, wretched day, thought Owen McIntosh, the Scottish owner of Victoria Jute Mills. He sat on the veranda of his bungalow, the pipe in his mouth remained unlit, his cup of tea untouched. After the horrific events of the day before, he felt no desire for the small comforts he looked forward to every evening when he got home.
A dreary darkness had settled around the bungalow compound, and in the distance the jackals howled in chorus. It was around this time yesterday that Shamol Roy had suffered the fatal cobra bite in the jute godown and breathed his last. Owen was horrified to think of the poor man lying in his own vomit all night, surrounded by rats, cockroaches, the jackals wandering in and out of the open doorway. When the laborers found his body in the morning, the jackals had half dragged it out of the doorway and it was a gruesome sight. Owen McIntosh covered his eyes and felt the bile rise to his throat at the memory of what he had seen.
What a fine young man Shamol Roy had been. He’d had so much promise and was undoubtedly one of the best employees of Victoria Jute Mills. Owen believed Roy deserved better. He had been too educated and genteel for the rough work he did in that filthy godown, managing the common laborers, day in and day out. That man had a quiet presence about him, a dignity of carriage, speech and manners that belied his humble village upbringing. From what Owen knew, Shamol Roy had been the only earning member of his joint family. He had accepted the godown job because the pay was slightly higher than the administrative work at the mill office. Owen had had every good intention to promote him to a better paying position in the main office as soon as he could find someone to replace him. At one point, he had even toyed with the idea of grooming Roy as his personal assistant. Now it was too late.
More than just sadness and regret, Owen McIntosh was tortured with guilt. He knew in his heart he had delayed Shamol Roy’s promotion because of his own self-interest. Raw-material management was a critical part of the jute mill business and Owen had yet to find someone as responsible and capable as Roy. Roy had had a gentle way of dealing with the rough laborers. He had known each laborer by name and often asked after their families. Shamol Roy had been meticulous about his job and never acted bossy or condescending toward his assistant. Because he’d managed the godown operation so faultlessly, Owen had let him run it. He had not tried hard enough to find a substitute, and the soft-spoken young man never once complained.
Shamol Roy had elected not to live in the jute mill quarters provided free to employees. Rather, each day, he traveled up and down by boat from his village to work. Most other workers went home only on weekends. A cluster of cheap wine shops and brothels had sprung up around the jute mill area to cater to these men. Many showed up to work red-eyed and hungover in the mornings, but Shamol Roy had always arrived impeccably dressed, never absent or late. He had to return home every night to tutor his children, he’d explained, to help them with their schoolwork, as he did not want them falling behind in their studies. Owen also knew he had collected the discarded pencil stubs from the office to take home to his son.
He had once met the older boy at the office of Saraswati Puja. Held in the jute mill compound during early spring, the puja was a joyous occasion celebrated with the beating of drums and blowing of conch horns. Employees brought their wives and children from the villages, dressed in bright new clothes to see the bedecked Goddess of Learning seated on her snow-white lotus, holding a stringed vina in her hands.
Owen had been in his office when Shamol Roy had walked in with his eight-year-old son. A bold and curious child, he was intelligent beyond his years. The boy had sat on the edge of his chair and knew more about jute manufacturing than most of the employees at the mill. Thoroughly charmed, Owen had, with mock gravity, offered the lad a job. To his surprise the young fellow piped up, “Thank you, sir, but I must complete my education first.”
