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    Durga Puja

    Raindrops wail against locked shutters as the monotony of monsoon season

    pounds Meeras dreams. Yet something stirs her awake in the dark night. Confused, she

    sits up on her bedroll and scans the room. Ranjan is gone. Meera is more concerned than

    scared. Fear and awe have already passed with his earlier episodes of sleepwalking.

    Usually she discovers him changing clothes in the dark. What are you doing? she asks,

    and her younger brother does not respond. One night he and his glassy eyes try to climb

    out the window. Now it is locked, and Meera sleeps next to it.

    She knows where to look. The rain calls her outside. Meera brings a shawl for

    Ranjan. Barefoot, she cracks the back door. A breeze makes the door creak, so she props

    it open with a shoe. She sneaks outside. Fear is rising up in her throat, deeper than the

    night.

    The stairwell is open. She slips between the iron bars onto Bipin Pal Road.

    Humid and warm, the rain offers no relief. Two men drive on a motorcycle, flash their

    light once. They see Meera and say something to each other. A dog barks as she

    bypasses a tarp extended out over the sidewalk. A man sleeps there with his family,

    sitting upright, head falling into his chest. He rustles, stares at her with disbelief, and

    then nods back off, while a childs leg pokes out into the water flowing off the curb.

    There is more plastic in the corners of the park, more hunger, but the rain drives

    most to more protected nooks of Calcutta. Meera spots Ranjan. He is standing in the

    middle of the Deshapriya Park pitch, swinging an imaginary cricket bat with a disjointed

    and spacey motion. He is off-balance, almost tripping. Meera reaches gently for her

    brother, grabs his arm, and hugs him. She covers his soaking shoulders. Obedience is

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    Ranjans only reaction. Meera leads him home, wiping water from her face. A man calls

    out from the darkness. Someone answers as the children pass through the night.

    Early morning is dark. Meera! Ranjan! Sona Ma yells from the kitchen,

    Come here this instant. Meera jumps off the ground and looks for the shawl that is

    already draped around her shoulders.

    What is this?! Sona Ma exclaims, pointing at the muddy footprints on the floor,

    leading from the back door to their sleeping area in the living room. Someone please

    explain this to me. Ranjan looks utterly befuddled, as though he is staring at the pages

    of an impossible exam. Someone explain this!

    Surendranath hears his wifes tone and emerges from the bedroom with his belt.

    Meera bends dutifully over an ottoman, and her father lashes her.

    This is not safe! Sona Ma declares. What if you are abducted? Do you know

    what could happen? This is not a game. What if the neighbors find out about this?

    Ranjan receives his lashings with pain and complete confusion. He sits in the

    corner of the living room for hours, refusing to move. After tea and toast, Father dresses

    for work. He gathers his hat, and then speaks to Ranjan in the corner. Whats the

    matter with you? Go to school. You will never excel like your sister. The goddess

    Saraswati blesses her. She is the top of every subject in the Fifth Standard. And you

    Father places the hat on his head. You are untouched. Go to school and work harder.

    You are letting down all of the men in the family. Surendranath pops his umbrella

    against the rain and walks out the door.

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    After three months of downpours drown the Calcutta streets with rain, the

    summer monsoon breaks into a new and glorious season. The onset of October in 1945 is

    clear and hot, the land replenished with water. Orchid blossoms explode, palm leaves

    unfold, while the grass seems to grow before the citys eyes. Even the rows of dead fish

    look fat and happy in the market. Tiny yellow butterflies fill the stalls where Sona Ma

    inspects mountains of fresh spices, vegetables, and fruit. Finally, she has the proper

    ingredients to bring her culinary specialties to full form.

    The shops burst with gift items common to the Durga Puja. Sona Ma purchases

    them in heaps to distribute as presents to all of the village relatives in East Bengal: new

    shirts for the males, shining bangles and fresh saris for the females. Holiday cards also

    appear, with drawings of glorious Durga riding atop a lion. The same image is slowly

    coming to form amidst a crosshatched wooden scaffold erected recently in Deshapriya

    Park. It seems as though a Mother-god is near, a feminine force omnipresent. This force

    opens Sona Ma. She is aware that Ranjan is sleepwalking. Before a long journey to the

    ancestral village for Durga Puja, the Choudhurys address the problem. Do not worry,

    Ranjan, soothes Sona Ma. You will not embarrass our family.

    Surendranath and Sona Ma take Ranjan to a holy man who lives near his school.

    Bejoy Gopal is the name of the kind, soft-spoken sage. Gopal is affluent, with large

    landholdings in East Bengal, but he prefers to live in Calcutta, in a four-building garden

    house complex with his daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren. Gopal possesses a

    saintly nature and a vast knowledge of religion. A Brahmin, he is revered for his spiritual

    understanding. He does not wear forehead markings, white ashes, or a transcendental

    stare, like the holy men from the villages who appear with their followers in Calcutta

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    during religious pilgrimages. Gopal is informal, an old friend to the Choudhurys. They

    visit Gopals home frequently, where they chat comfortably for hours.

    Gopal knows theBhagavad-Gita inside and out, reciting applicable passages for

    any moral issue or problem. He hums a soothing Tagore song and the sacred syllable

    om. As a young man, Gopal met Swami Vivekananda and became inspired by the

    divinity of Sri Ramakrishna. Ranjan addresses Bejoy Gopal as Grandfather and greets

    him by gathering dust off his feet. Gopal allows thepronam from Ranjan, yet parries his

    parents from this gesture by a gentle hand.

    Can you believe it? Gopal says. It appears as if Jinnah will stand for nothing

    but Pakistan. And it is true. Within two years, a new country called East Pakistan will

    replace the eastern half of Bengal. Muslims simply overtake Gopals entire landholding,

    and his Hindu family accepts it. His own dark fate does not seem possible at this moment

    in the drawing room.

    Ranjan sits quietly while the adults discuss religion. The principal of sacrifice is

    central to Hindu spirituality, Gopal asserts. He punctuates his point with aBhagavad-

    Gita verse, What seems at first a cup of sorrow is found in the end immortal wine. That

    pleasure is pure: it is the joy which arises from a clear vision of the Spirit. Sona Ma

    nods in agreement, yet she does not truly comprehend these words until many years later.

    The problem of sleepwalking is eventually brought to the holy mans attention.

    He calls to the boy. Ranjan approaches him. Gopal thinks for a moment and stares at

    several miniature paintings ofRamayana scenes scattered around the room. He places

    his hands upon Ranjans head. He does not speak a word. Gopal then removes his

    hands. Ranjan looks up into his eyes.

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    Is that all, Grandfather?

    That is all.

    Ranjan offers respectful thanks, but leaves the encounter very skeptical of this

    cure. His lack of faith in Gopals holy power is unwarranted, for that very night, the boy

    sleeps peacefully, as still as a windless flame. Effective is Gopals blessing, and Ranjan

    never walks through another night in his life. Without reservation, the Choudhurys

    prepare to celebrate Durga Puja with Surendranaths extended family in the ancestral

    village.

    In 1945, the journey to Katakasthal takes the better part of two days. On the first

    day, around noon, Surendranath, Sona Ma, Meera, and Ranjan board a train at Calcuttas

    Sealdah Station. The train is bound for Khulna, a port town at the end of the eastern line.

    A steam engine drives the train, fed by piles of black coal that belch soot out of a

    chimney throughout the five-hour ride. Closing the windows cuts the intensity of the

    black dust, but then it becomes so hot that the grime is the lesser of two evils.

    The landscape extends, lush and humid, as the Choudhurys travel across East

    Bengal, while the frequency of the rivers grows like a swollen web. At Khulna, there are

    no more bridges. Here, boats become the most practical transport.

    Everyone on the train knows the ship transfer routine, including Meera and

    Ranjan, but Sona Ma reviews it again. They grip their sleeping rolls, and when the train

    finally stops, they make a rush for the paddleboat. As if in a game of musical chairs, the

    passengers charge, seeking to establish a good sleeping space on the deck in order to

    avoid a long, uncomfortable night.

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    The ship at Khulna has an upper and lower deck, along with a few compartments.

    Most of the deck space is covered by awning, which keeps out the high sun while

    offering a view of the colorful evening. At dusk, cows take their last drink from a river

    of sleepy crimson and turn back onto worn paths. Open railings around the sides of the

    ship liberate warm night breezes that drift off the river with a reflection of stars and the

    occasional call of a marsh crane. The moon rises, almost full, flooding the landscape

    with Her spirit.

    In the early morning, the boat arrives in Barisal. Here the Choudhurys meet up

    with Surendranaths older brother and his family. Oldest Uncle, a manager at an elevator

    maintenance company in Barisal, lives there with his wife and three daughters. He

    always seems to wear a furrowed expression that cuts a distinct line straight through the

    third eye on his brow. Geeta Aunt tries to make up for Uncles sour nature by chatting

    fervently, which causes a sway in the very long ponytail of black hair falling down her

    back.

    In the presence of Oldest Uncle and Geeta Aunt, Sona Ma looks different. The

    end of her sari is drawn over her head as a sign of respect. Her nieces, Anusha, Ajita, and

    Mita, greet Sona Ma, bending low to gather dust respectfully off of her feet. They simply

    say hi to Ranjan and Meera. Soon the teenage girls are gossiping while the adults

    discuss politics, leaving Ranjan on the periphery to inspect a guava at the bus stations

    fruit stand and play with the top saved in his pocket.

    The whole group travels together. Both Choudhury families board a bus from the

    Barisal central terminal for the ride to the ancestral village. Travel time is always

    unspecific, thanks to the myriad of potential problems. The most frequent is overheating,

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    so an assistant driver stands on the front fender of the bus, pouring water over the

    radiator while the vehicle keeps moving through the lush countryside. The bus is fueled

    by water, Meera points out to Ranjan. But he is not sure whether he believes her,

    because of his giggling cousins.

    The vibrant East Bengal landscape flows through a broken window. Children are

    everywhere, outnumbering adults, swift with their smiles and lithe movement. Small

    villages of straw huts appear, with squatting mud-colored men relaxing under the slopes

    of lean-tos. Women, adorned in stunningly bright saris of yellow or orange, clean clothes

    by the banks of a creek. They hammer out the filth and set the clothes to dry upon

    scattered rocks.

    Many small rivers cut unpredictable swaths through the road. The monsoon was

    generous in 1945, so the bus driver has to be careful not to get stuck or slide off course.

    At many small river crossings, he drives the bus onto a pontoon that is pulled to the other

    bank by industrious village men.

    The water level remains high once the bus reaches Katakasthal, a small clearing in

    a forest of mango trees. The Choudhury ancestral home is just a few hundred yards from

    the bus station, but as honored guests, the families are poled to their final destination in a

    flat-bottomed boat. The whole extended clan, close to one hundred people, greets them

    with warmth and awe at the dock area behind the house; they are the special relatives

    from the city. Many aunts and uncles, along with broods of excited cousins, embrace

    Meera and Ranjan, both of whom are grimy from the journey. Family of all ages roams

    the dock, the balcony, the roof, and the clearing by the side of the house. Sona Ma

    exchanges greetings and unloads her presents, always sure to keep her head covered.

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    Grandmother Sumonjuri, Surendranaths mother, comes out to the balcony ledge

    of the second floor of her home to offer instructions to the people below. She is used to

    this pulpit, as she never allows lower castes, tribals, or Muslims inside the house but

    sometimes has orders for them. If Grandmother Sumonjuri happens to cross the shadow

    of an untouchable or a Muslim, she bathes herself immediately. At this moment, though,

    she raises her hand toward her visitors in a gesture that resembles a blessing more than a

    welcome.

    Meera and Ranjan have two duties to fulfill before they are set free to play around

    the fishponds with the cousins: bathing and acknowledging all of the elders. Sona Ma

    draws water from a well with a bucket and splashes it over their heads with a ladle. After

    a scrub, another rinse, and a change of clothes, they are close to new. Be sure to address

    all of the elders with greetings from the family of Surendranath Choudhury, Sona Ma

    says proudly. She provides them with a small snack of potatoes and butter from a stash

    that she has made earlier in the morning. She knows the big lunch will run late in

    preparation.

    There are no proper toilets. This fact worries Meera and Ranjan, because they are

    too embarrassed to do their business in the outhouse hole or the surrounding woods. The

    children decide to consume only curried hardboiled eggs during the entire journey from

    Calcutta, which results effectively in constipation. This plan worries Mother, but she

    now has other responsibilities.

    Meera and Ranjan look for elders. They do not have to go far, as six or seven

    uncles are sitting right on the front porch. This is typical for village men; their days pass

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    simply, filled with field tending, eating, sitting on the porch, puffing a hookah, and

    socializing. Occasionally, a group ventures into town for a movie or a trek to another

    village nearby to visit relatives. Other than that, not much happens. As a result, small

    things gain enormous importance. Furious family rows erupt over nearly meaningless

    matters. Who brought the fish in from the pond? Who did not skin the fish properly?

    But the uncles seem very content at that moment, full of holiday spirit, as they accept the

    pronam from Meera and Ranjan.

    No one lives on the first floor of the house, as lower lying areas are susceptible to

    flooding. The first floor is a solid brick foundation with big, wide steps to the upper-

    level kitchen, where many of the aunts gather. In the evening, rooms are illuminated by

    hurricane lanterns whose chimneys are cleaned and restocked with fresh oil.

    Passing one room, Meera and Ranjan see their great aunt, who is blind. Meera

    knows what Ranjan is thinking. They tiptoe toward the upstairs, trying to shortcut their

    duty whileBoromashi continues her knitting.

    Who is there? she calls out, just as the children pass the doorway. Meera!

    Ranjan! Have you finally come to greet me? They turn around quickly, enter the room,

    and bow to her feet. Great Aunt responds with a smile more colorful than the crooked

    peach half-sweater in her hands.

    Meera and Ranjan snoop upstairs. The second floor of the house contains all of

    the living space, along with a communal kitchen. Several families occupy different

    rooms on the second level. From a side room, Grandmother Sumonjuri yells instructions

    that echo off the large vats waiting for rice. Several monstrous vessels of lentils are

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    already simmering as a feast slowly comes together. Geeta Aunt stirs as the children

    pass. She watches them carefully as they head toward the roof.

    Beside the kitchen, a last set of stairs leads to a roof where many pots of spices

    and flowers grow. Meera and Ranjan walk between the plants and out toward the roof

    ledge. Geeta Aunt notices their trajectory and stops stirring. Because there are no

    railings, the children have a clear view of the yard below. Two stories down, carts with

    rubber tires are propped under bigger trees. Short stakes for tethering water buffalo also

    poke out of the ground, near mounds of manure that are packed into paddies and dried for

    cooking fuel. Cousins wander everywhere, some flying kites.

    Children! Geeta Aunt snaps from the stairwell. Get away from that ledge! It

    is dangerous!

    Meera and Ranjan are so startled that they do not immediately respond to the

    command. This fact infuriates Geeta Aunt, so she dodges plants and then skillfully grabs

    an arm of each child. You children have no respect! No discipline at all! No proper

    upbringing! she yells, dragging them down to the kitchen. Here Sona Ma chops a

    mountain of vegetables while Geeta Aunt reports the misdeeds. Sona Ma slices with

    greater fierceness as the accusations unfold. She shatters a cauliflower. Sona Ma gives

    Meera and Ranjan a look that could kill an elephant, a look that should guarantee proper

    behavior for the remaining days of the visit.

    Are you going to take a turn? Ashanti Aunt asks. Sona Ma never husks rice in

    Calcutta. City rice is already clean of the husk when purchased from the market, unless

    one wants it otherwise. In the village, however, rice and husk need separation, and the

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    aunts use a dhenki for this task. The dhenki is a seesaw, a long wooden board mounted

    on a pedestal at the midpoint. Ashanti Aunt, Surendranaths oldest sister, presses down

    with her foot at one end, which lifts a pestle from a rice pile. She releases and the

    hammer falls, separating grain from husk.

    As Ashanti Aunt raises and lowers the hammer with her foot, Geeta Aunt feeds

    fresh paddy beneath the stomp and flips the husks over with her hand so that all are

    struck evenly. Rice eventually slides out of a little hole on the side into a shallow

    depression. Sona Ma understands that physical coordination is vital to this procedure, a

    blessing she has never known. Even as a young girl, private lessons forBharatnatyam

    dance were curtailed after a few weeks and changed to voice.

    Ah, Sona is not used to such work, Geeta Aunt interjects, feeding and flipping

    the husks rhythmically.

    Especially after growing up in Rangoon with such a rich father, Ashanti Aunt

    adds. What does your father do now? Did he retire in Calcutta?

    Sona Ma scoops grain from the impression, filling a clay pot. My father traded

    rice for a short time during the war, but he gave up that business. Now he sells eggs. He

    built a coop in the courtyard behind our flat.

    Do the birds speak English? Geeta Aunt pokes. The whole group of women

    bursts into laughter. Several kites join in the merriment, flashing their colors from the

    sky. Sona smiles politely and continues to pack grain.

    How come we never hear of the dowries from your husbands family? Ashanti

    Aunt continues. Eh?

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    Sona eyes the kites above them as one swoops dangerously low. The dowry was

    nothing specialenough for Surendranath and I to establish a household in Calcutta.

    I think you spend all your money on private schools for your children, Geeta

    Aunt says. The state school is just as good. A green kite swoops down again.

    Not good enough for them, Ashanti Aunt notes. The women all laugh again.

    Sona adjusts the end of her sari to cover her head completely. Is it my turn? she

    asks, taking her position at the foot pedal. Ashanti Aunt moves to the feeder, while the

    others stock husks and rice.

    Sona Ma has never operated a dhenki, but it looks simple. She begins well, yet

    the heavy pestle moves differently than she expects. Sona Ma controls it, until the green

    kite swoops close to her head and distracts her. Her timing falters and the hammer slams

    Ashanti Aunts hand.

    Ashanti Aunt stops feeding and cuddles her bruised finger. You hurt me! Why

    dont you do it correctly? she shouts. Did your mother train you properly for this?!

    Across the yard, Ranjan desperately tries to hold the string. He cannot control the

    free joy of his kite in the air. The cousins help him, bark instructions, and then grab his

    strings. It is too late. The green kite crashes into the dhenki, shaving Geeta Aunts head

    upon descent.

    Sona Ma storms into the side lot, where Meera and Ranjan are trying to untangle a

    knot in the kite string, surrounded by a group of cousins. Hard words of Bengali roll

    from the courtyard. The children are speechless as Sona Ma rips a thin branch off a

    nearby bush. Do you think I have time to follow you around all day? she shouts at

    Ranjan. She raises the switch to whip him, but freezes. All of the children are watching,

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    along with a gaggle of aunts from the courtyard. Raising her arm pulls Sonas gaze to the

    shrine of Mother Durga inside the holy area of the house. Durga also has arms stretching

    outward, one with a sharp raised sickle. Yet Durgas dark side is balanced by symmetric

    limbs of forgiveness.

    Sona Ma lowers the switch and points at Ranjan. Be more careful. Behave. If I

    have to speak to you again, Father will escort you home.

    Meera takes the tangled string from Ranjan. Dont worry, Mother, Meera

    declares as she rolls the kite string. There will be no more trouble. I promise.

    Sona Ma remains silent. She walks back to the courtyard as the aunts murmur

    and whisper. Sona Ma changes positions and begins to feed the unhusked rice rather than

    operate the hammer. She adjusts her sari so that it covers her head completely.

    Is everything ready? Grandmother Sumonjuri calls down from the balcony.

    The meal prepared, relatives fill the dining area of the house. An overflow sits in

    small earthen huts outside the main house, where ten to twelve people dine under each

    structure. The Choudhury family invites the whole village to their house during the four-

    day festival, allowing local women a break from the routine of cooking. Everyone enjoys

    the food, eating with their hands off large green banana leaves. The aunts eat last, after

    all the others have been served, and then they scrub the giant vessels for tomorrow.

    At dusk, Meera and Ranjan hear the sound of drums, as a professional troupe

    walks along a village road toward the house. They run to the end of the driveway to

    check the path. A curious Muslim neighbor, Dr. Akbar, waits there at a respectful

    distance, drawn by the rare activity of the neighborhood. Adding to the excitement,

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    cousins light firecrackers and sparklers, or whack long sticks with a cap on the end in

    explosive celebration. Lean men approach with several different types of instruments.

    The deep bass drum looks like a barrel, while the small, thick cymbal resembles a frying

    pan. All are struck with skinny sticks made of cane. Anticipation grows as the men enter

    the compound. Extended family unifies to the pulse of Hindu celebration. At this

    moment, Dr. Akbar examines the gathering from the road and hesitates. Why dont you

    go in and watch? Ranjan asks.

    Dr. Akbar smiles. Well, son, I am a Muslim, and this is a Hindu festival. I do

    not want to taint the proceedings for your Grandmother Sumonjuri.

    But you are a neighbor. You live in this village.

    Do not worry, Dr. Akbar assures. I am happy to watch from here.

    The musicians pulse a tribal beat. Using syncopated patterns as transitions, part

    of the group splits off to a new rhythm that the other half eventually adopts with

    enthusiasm. Like the dynamic of family and village, new beats spin from old, energizing

    the spirit of Mother Durga.

    Why doyou stand way out here? Dr. Akbar inquires. Your mother is next to

    the image. Why not go closer?

    We promised, Meera interjects, to stay out of sight.

    And out of trouble, Ranjan adds.

    Ah, I see, mumbles Dr. Akbar, as he watches Sona Ma. A smile almost crosses

    her face, he thinks, but maybe the setting sun deceives him. The pulse quickens as the

    light deepens. The vivacity of the drums is reminding Sona Ma of the Burmese dance

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    ensembles that performed under the portico of her parents Rangoon estate. She is

    remembering Taro.

    A village priest sets the last rose tint upon Durgas third eye, and with the help of

    rhythmic mantras and a splash of Ganges water, the image comes to life. Durga gazes

    upon Mother with clear eyes. The priest places an earthen jar before her and says the

    appropriate prayers. Sona Ma stands transfixed. Durga stares at her with a benign smile,

    hands raised in blessing.

    On the second day of the celebration, all fast to purify their bodies. Each then

    approaches the image and makes small offerings of flowers, bilva leaves, money, and

    sweets to Mother Durga, along with silent prayers. In the afternoon, Sona Ma and the

    aunts prepare a special feast of meat and fish. This meal is served in the evening to all

    the Hindus in the village, as there are no otherpujas in the vicinity.

    At night, relatives sleep everywhere. Surendranath rests with a gang of uncles,

    lounging in a boat secured to the back dock. They fish early in the morning, as though

    they are boys again. One brother drinks whiskey as they troll. Surendranath is

    supremely content upon the water, a place where the dawn washes away all worries and

    regrets, where the first breath of day purifies all.

    Mother and the aunts sleep inside, while Meera and Ranjan slumber with all the

    cousins on coconut-fiber cots between rooftop plants. Meera wakes many times at night,

    terrified that Ranjan will sleepwalk. Yet each time the humid night ruffles the plants

    waxy green leaves, Ranjan resembles a dead fisheyes closed, mouth gaping,

    completely still.

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    Deep in the dark, before the birds begin their calls, Meera wakes again.

    Grandmother Sumonjuri stands very close to her cot, scanning the bodies and plants

    strewn upon the rooftop. Her eyes are polished as glass.

    Grandmother, Meera whispers.

    Bent like a question, the old woman does not respond.

    Grandmother! She must not hear me, Meera thinks, as she watches her slowly

    navigate leaves and limbs. Grandmother Sumonjuri gazes upon the landscape of the

    jungle, checks the courtyard, and then disappears back down the stairs to her bedroom.

    On the fourth and final day of the celebration, Mother Durga, the dutiful wife, is

    overwhelmed by the sadness of separation. She returns to her husbands home. Before

    Durga departs, all the women visit the image one last time to bid farewell. Curious

    children tag along, but stand at a respectful distance from the shrine. They circle

    Grandmother Sumonjuri with love while Sona Ma and the aunts smear vermillion powder

    on the forehead and feet of the goddess.

    Why dont you do that, Grandmother? the children whisper.

    Her precious offspring fill her arms. My time has passed, darlings. A widows

    touch will spoil the whole offering and ruin the purity of the sacrifice to Mother. This is

    the time for wives and mothers, for married women, for those who bear sons.

    Sona Ma marks red the scalp and third eye of Geeta Aunt and Ashanti Aunt.

    What is she doing?

    This action protects your aunts from the misfortune of widowhood,

    Grandmother notes. In addition, all harsh words and jealousies are washed away.

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    It is the hour when the cows return home, kicking up dust, coloring the evening

    sky peach and plum. Men arrive and load Mother Durga upon a small boat. They

    immerse Her in the river with mantras and renewed strikes of the drum. As her splendor

    submerges in the brown water, Sona Ma attempts to discard all ill will, hostility, and

    anger. She embraces Ashanti Aunt and Geeta Aunt. Sona Ma offers sweets to Ranjan

    and buries him in her sari with a hug. This moment of reconciliation and renewal, this

    ritual, still feels empty. Sona Ma feels disenchantment rather than peace. For the first

    time, she glimpses the other side of her familys nature and begins to understand that

    which lies beyond.

    At sunrise, Ranjan watches Sona Ma perform her dailypuja. Before an alter set

    inside her bedroom closet, she offers sweets and tiny cups of water to pictures and statues

    of gods, pinching prayer beads along the way. Ranjan sits quietly on a small stack of

    books.

    After watching Sona Ma for months, he finally gathers the nerve to inquire, Why

    do you worship Kali?

    Kali is the power of woman, wife, and mother, a strength greatly respected in

    Bengal for centuries, Mother answers. Kali, like Durga, is a destroyer of evil and a

    protector of good. Many times, doing good a divine act requires great strength.

    Sacrifice cuts through illusion, through layers ofmaya. Behind these illusions, God is

    waiting, along with the greatest joys of life.

    Can you see God? Ranjan asks.

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    Sona Ma looks carefully at her son and adjusts an image. There is a story where

    a boy enters a jungle and sees a beautiful red animal on a tree. He reports this to his

    friend who says, I saw the animal too, but it was green. A third boy thinks that it was

    yellow. They all start to argue. Ranjans eyes are wide and rapt. So they return to the

    tree to settle the problem. A monk is there, and they ask him Have you seen that

    beautiful animal? What color is it? And the monk says, Yes. Sometimes it is red,

    sometimes green, sometimes yellow, sometimes a different color. It is a chameleon.

    Sometimes it has no color. It has various forms and aspects, but it does appear to those

    who seek.

    The seat of books shifts under Ranjan, yet he maintains his balance. I want to

    see the beautiful animal.

    Sona Ma hands him a small offering, which Ranjan carefully places upon the

    altar.

    Keshab, a driver from the Port Commissioners Office, arrives in front of St.

    Xaviers School. Ranjan, wearing a white shirt, tie, and trousers, is waiting. Januarys

    green tropical leaves burst all around the school entrance, yet the students are subdued,

    coming and going faster than shadows. Please sit in the front seat, Keshab orders.

    Although it seems strange, Ranjan obeys. Keshab does not speak. He turns the

    radio volume down slightly. The British Empire is finished in India Nehru has

    made great commitments and should be our leader Jinnah is nothing but trouble

    Leave them to their Pakistan. Ranjan does not understand the politics on the radio. He

    does understand that something important is happening, something dangerous. His

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    parents warn him, Be extremely careful. Usually Ranjan rides the trolley to school and

    back with a small group of friends, but not this week.

    Keshab adjusts the radio knob. The angular voice of Muslim leader Mohammad

    Ali Jinnah calls for direct action, yet the sidewalks and shops along Park Street look

    much less crowded than usual. What is direct action? Ranjan asks. Keshab wobbles

    his head and turns down Laudon Street.

    The Ambassador car slows at a congested intersection. Motorbikes and taxis

    circumvent a throng of people that surround something on a street corner. As they pass,

    Ranjan leans over the seat to look out the back window. There is a strike, Ranjan

    suggests. Or someone passed out. Keshab puts his hand on Ranjans shoulder,

    pressing him back into the passenger seat.

    As they near Deshapriya Park, smoke wafts into the car with growing intensity.

    I think there is a fire, Ranjan notes, scanning out the front window and then out the

    back.

    Keshab grabs him fiercely. Please stay down!

    Ranjans tie is cocked and his eyes are misty. Keshab tries to calm the boy. A

    Muslim business was set on fire. Keshab turns off the radio. Or maybe it is a

    retaliation against a Hindu. Or a retaliation for a retaliation. It is difficult to know any

    more.

    Ranjan peers out the window, as one teardrop falls. He wipes his nose, refusing

    to look at Keshab. Why is there blood all over the back seat of this car?

    Keshab fumbles images and holy charms poised on the dashboard as a bloom of

    sweat lathers his armpits, forehead, and chest. He opens his mouth several times before

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    words escape. There was a tragedy today. Your parents friend, your holy

    Grandfather Mr. Gopal was severely injured. We transported him to the hospital, but

    he lost a lot of blood. Keshab grips the steering wheel fiercely as he navigates around

    the Park and into the alley of the Choudhury residence. Sona Ma waits in the driveway

    and closes the steel gate, even though it is the middle of the afternoon.

    Sona Ma slices a piece of mango for Surendranaths breakfast platter, carving an

    intricate flower pattern in the corner as a special touch. She listens intently for the

    backdoor latch. It finally opens. Surendranath has completed his four-hour shift with the

    neighborhood watch. Hindu men set up a barricade at the end of the street. From dusk to

    dawn, they protect the block from Muslim attacks.

    Sona Mas heart pounds with relief. Your breakfast is on the table when you are

    ready for it.

    Using a finger, Surendranath brushes red betel from his teeth and then cleans his

    hands before sitting down. Will the children eat? he asks.

    They have finished, replies Sona Ma.

    Surendranath gazes at the mango flower, admires the intricacy, and then eats it.

    Sona Ma spreads jelly on his toast while he sips tea. Bejoy Gopal is dead. He clears

    his throat. He lost too much blood yesterday. They could not save him. Sona places a

    sugar caddy next to his cup and adds a spoonful to his drink.

    Mother! Meera screams from the front balcony. Mother!!

    Sona Ma and Surendranath hurry to the open front porch. Like statues, Meera and

    Ranjan peer off the balcony at Deshapriya Park. Dawn spreads upon the open green

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    where Meera plays on swings and Ranjan once dreamed of nighttime cricket matches.

    Cold-eyed vultures swarm the park for an insane feast. The Choudhurys witness horror.

    The children are not sure where the dead bodies came from or why, yet several

    corpses are piled there haphazardly. Dark confusion presses from all directions. Sona

    Ma cannot explain it. She simply drapes her arms over her childrens chests, protecting

    their souls with open hands.

    The agony gradually recedes. Muslims and Hindus cannot agree upon parameters

    for one nation, so two nations are created. The date is set for August 15, 1947. India will

    officially become independent from Britain and the country of Pakistan will form.

    During the month leading up to the partition, radio reports follow the transition at the

    Choudhury home. Every district circling around the ancestral village is declared part of

    East Pakistan, yet for almost a week Katakasthal sits like a Hindu island, absent the roll

    call of transition.

    Do you suppose they have come to their senses and plan to leave some of the

    land integrated with Hindus? Sona Ma proposes.

    Not likely, responds Surendranath. Great Uncle says the family is already on

    its way here. So what is the difference? They will come and live with us. It is our duty

    and our responsibility.

    Sona Ma agrees silently. She watches Meera and Ranjan march across the

    driveway, practicing steps for a huge Independence Celebration. Optimism echoes

    through the alley drive with the clomp of their heels. Their schools contribute to the

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    parade of Indians that will proceed down Red Road as free citizens within the month.

    Meera sings and helps Ranjan with the words.

    Better than the entire world, is our Hindustan

    We are its nightingales, and it is our garden abode.

    That tallest mountain, that shade-sharer of the sky

    Is our sentry, is our watchman.

    In its lap frolic those thousands of rivers,

    Whose vitality makes our garden the envy of Paradise.

    Religion does not teach us to bear ill-will among ourselves

    We are of Hind, our homeland is Hindustan.

    Sona Ma prepares the household for the arrival of Grandmother Sumonjuri, blind

    Great Aunt, Ashanti Aunt, Geeta Aunt, Oldest Uncle, Anusha, Ajita, and Mita. All of the

    books are removed from the living room case to make space for their clothes and sundry

    items. She stacks volumes in the corners of her room, some under the bed and the

    overflow along her mattress. This will be convienent for reading at night, she thinks.

    New shelves and hooks mark the kitchen walls. New fiber cots line the balcony. Dust is

    gone and floors are washed. An additional cook is hired.

    Sona Ma escorts Meera and Ranjan to their grandparents flat downstairs with

    their bedrolls, pajamas, and neem sticks neatly tucked under their arms. Chandan meets

    them at the door to the flat. Father, greets Sona Ma, tell them where to store their

    things.

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    Chandan Mukherji puts his hands on the heads of his grandchildren, strolling to

    the back of the house.

    May I feed the chickens? Ranjan interjects.

    Yes, yes, Chandan says. They like to eat. And Meera, you can help me

    collect eggs.

    A caravan of Ambassador cabs and tuk-tuks arrives from the train station. Sona

    Ma watches her husband escort Grandmother Sumonjuri from the car to the front door

    where she is waiting. Ashanti Aunt and Geeta Aunt are close behind. Sona Ma stands

    firm in the doorway, strong. They exchange no sentiment. Everyone understands that

    Sona Ma is in full command.

    After another month, the rainy season of 1947 ends. Sunshine dries the floods

    and solidifies new forms in Calcutta. It is the first Durga Puja in years to be celebrated

    without British rule, yet the huge gatherings in the ancestral village are finished. Several

    cousins back in Katakashtal are the last to abandon the Choudhury home. They

    eventually leave East Pakistan because there was trouble.

    For Ranjan, trouble evaporates. Bejoy Gopals blessing turns his school

    performance on its head. Holy Grandfathers sleepwalking cure lasts, along with a

    tangible spirit. Little red checks mark the sides of Ranjans perfect tests, ticked off by

    the Fourth-Standard teacher, indicating one correct answer after another, just as Meera

    has always received. Surendranath stops his abuse. Relatives are constanly present,

    inside and outside of the flat. There is no privacy, not even enough room for husbands

    and wives to bicker.

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    Grandmother Sumonjuri and blind Great Aunt sit on chairs in the driveway as

    Meera and Ranjan return from school. They are knitting shawls for Anushas wedding

    trousseau. The children wash and begin their home lessons. With little space to work,

    they turn over egg baskets for desks and work by the chicken coop in the back lot. The

    fabulous smell of Sona Mas fish balls wafts from the upper floor, working hard to

    distract them.

    Ashanti Aunt, Geeta Aunt, and Sona Ma work together in the kitchen. Ashanti

    Aunt cuts fish from the skin and grinds it with a large rolling pin until the bones begin to

    show. Gradually, the bones separate from the meat, even in the difficult uper half of the

    fish. Geeta Aunt adds ginger, garlic, and onions to the meat, rolling the whole thing into

    a sausage. She boils the sasauge until it is tight and hot. Sona Ma cuts the sasauge into

    pieces and exposes them to a shallow fry in oil. She tops the medallions with mustard

    gravy.

    The whole family gathers to eat the chitol muthiya.

    Good news and bad news, Father says to his brother. The crease in Oldest

    Uncles forehead intensifies, as if his whole face will implode. Bad news is that the

    receiving clerks job at the Port Commissioners was filled today. Putus cousin got it.

    Geeta Aunt turns and looks at her husband, but for once adds nothing. Good news is

    that Ambassador Car is opening up a new plant in Calcutta. And they will soon be

    posting for assembly line workers. I can get your name on that list before it is even

    posted, through a friend at the port.

    Oldest Uncle nibbles at a fish ball. I would appreciate this greatly.

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    Conversation soon circulates around the table about Mitas improved grade in the

    English language course, about Meeras potential for college, and preparations for

    Anushas wedding. In between topics, Mother even manages to chastise Ranjan. Dont

    eat the fish balls so fast! You cant enjoy them that way.

    At some point the usually reticent Grandmother Sumonjuri speaks up. Everyone

    is respectful. She sits up and declares flatly, I would like to go back home.

    Oldest Uncle looks around the table and states the obvious. You have no home

    to go back to. This is our home now.

    No, Amu! Grandmother barks. Not to live there, but merely to recover some

    of our things. Anushas wedding day will be here soon. This is the third or fourth time

    Grandmother has brought up this idea. She is intent upon recovering some housewares

    from the Katakasthal estate, namely the huge cooking vessels used for weddings and

    festivals. She knows that her Muslim neighbor, the bearded Dr. Akbar, runs an import-

    export business between Calcutta and East Pakistan via a small fleet of boats.

    Grandmother has tried to contact Dr. Akbar, but the mail has proven unreliable.

    Therefore she proposes a personal visit for business reasons.

    Every adult at the table is against a trip, but Grandmother Sumonjuri insists,

    noting, At least some things I can still save.

    Grandmother is used to traveling, as she takes many trips with tour groups of

    widows to the religious pilgrimage sites around India. There are hundreds of holy places

    and a handful of fortunate days each year during which one ritual bath or offering brings

    salvation for a lifetime. And salvation is what Grandmother is after in the ancestral

    village.

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    It is too dangerous to travel to East Pakistan, Oldest Uncle advises.

    My son, I am also fearful, she responds. But I am more disturbed by this

    waste.

    Sona Ma understands her logic perfectly, as well as the many other unspoken

    reasons for Grandmother Sumonjuris stance. Like Sona Ma, Grandmother is attached to

    the home where she first arrived as a young bride. Grandmother lived at the ancestral

    home throughout her husbands lifetime and beyond. Her children matured there and

    generations blossomed from this root. Home is salvation and Grandmother wants to

    collect what is left.

    Understanding this, Sona Ma speaks up against the others. I believe that she

    should go. Father and Oldest Uncle think to speak, but observing Sona Mas conviction,

    they both check their tongues. They know it is useless to argue. It is decided.

    Grandmother Sumonjuri will travel to Katakasthal with Oldest Uncle as her escort.

    Sona Ma remembers it as clearly as thepandals of Durga Puja, Bejoy Gopals

    holy touch upon Ranjans head, the journeys to the family village, the dhenki, and the

    corpses piled in Deshapriya Park: the long dinner conversations end the night Oldest

    Uncle returns home from Katakasthal without Grandmother Sumonjuri. Oldest Uncle

    tells the story with near fury in his voice, as if anger is the only way to prevent a full and

    open sobbing.

    We reached Katakasthal without incident, reports Oldest Uncle. Grandmother

    met Dr. Akbar, who agreed to send the huge cooking vessels back to Calcutta on one of

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    his boats, free of charge. Dr. Akbar said this was the least he could do for an old

    neighbor.

    Oldest Uncle looks away from the family as his eyes moisten. She repeated

    herself throughout her last days. This was the home of your fathers family where I

    arrived at age fifteen. This was the place of my duty and sacrifice for the family. Now I

    will leave this household and return to Calcutta, a widow in her seventies, and become

    free from obligation like Mother Durga in October. My sons will take care of me.

    At night, Oldest Uncle continues, she seemed agitated. All of those thoughts

    must have mixed inside her mind as she fell asleep. Uncle curses himself for never

    hearing her rise and walk toward the roof. He was exhausted from the journey and

    snored through her sleepwalking. Unlike him, Oldest Uncles voice cracks as he points

    at Ranjan, she was never cured. As ill-fated stars held their positions in the sky,

    Grandmother Sumonjuri walked to the top floor of the house, sound asleep, and stepped

    right off the side of the roof. The next morning I found her, Oldest Uncle cracks, in a

    heap by the foundation.

    In a heap by the foundation, Uncle repeats, and stares with bitterness at Sona

    Ma. No one speaks. Months of frustration about jobs, money, politics, and manhood boil

    into resentment within him, spoiling any thoughtfulness in his heart. All of this is your

    fault, he blurts at Sona Ma. Youre not so smart. The hard crease cuts through Oldest

    Uncles third eye like a hatchet. We never should have gone back there.

    Sona Ma is forlorn, yet stern. She offers only words of consolation to Oldest

    Uncle. There are no apologies for her choices. Sona Ma is neither ill at ease nor unsure,

    as if Kali herself directs all actions.

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    The cooking vessels arrive, along with Grandmother Sumonjuris body, on a

    special boat arranged by Dr. Akbar. The body is cremated. Oldest Uncle and

    Surendranath perform funeral rites and sprinkle her ashes into the Ganges River, a holy

    duty of Bengali sons. Within a short time Anusha marries, while Sona Ma, Geeta Aunt,

    and Ashanti Aunt complete the nuptial screenings for Ajita. The cousins move to the

    homes of their new husbands. Soon after, the Ambassador Car Company hires Oldest

    Uncle. He, Geeta Aunt, and Ashanti Aunt leave with blind Great Aunt, to live near the

    plant. They pack their clothes one day and leave their new address on a piece of paper.

    Ranjan and Meera return, with their sleeping rolls and neem sticks, to their

    parents flat. They help Sona Ma restack the volumes on the living room case. Ranjan

    carries a huge load of books that almost topples when he hands them to Sona Ma. Her

    good humor fuels his confidence. Why did you allow such harsh words from Oldest

    Uncle?

    Sona Ma sets a book and answers, Because I respect my elders.

    Why no proper punishments? Meera adds.

    Sona Ma rearranges two or three books, placing them in alphabetical order. Did

    the gods not serve justice?

    The children know not to ask any more questions. Sona Ma assiduously

    rearranges a whole shelf before she speaks. Do you not remember the words of

    Grandfather Bejoy Gopal?

    Ranjan thinks, but only remembers the holy mans soft touch upon his head, the

    cure.

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    Through love, one can see the true nature of things. Behind the illusions of life,

    God is waiting. Sona Ma holds theBhagavad-Gita in her hands for a moment, and then

    carefully places it on the top shelf. This type of understanding does not arrive quickly.

    Like immortal wine, it often drips slowly from cups of sorrow.