Flame Tree Road. Shona Patel

in his students a deep love of learning. He guarded their private struggles and brandished their victories to all. He was, after all, a born and gifted teacher.

      * * *

      The palanquin bearers slept peacefully under the mango tree. The shadows had lengthened in the bamboo grove and it was already time for evening puja by the time Samir was done. Shibani lovingly bandaged his feet in soft mulmul strips cut from her old saris and kissed the top of his head before sending him on his way. Biren sighed with relief to see the palanquin swing off at a brisk pace and disappear down the bend in the road. He had secretly begun to worry Samir would end up staying the night or, worse still, be adopted by the family and they would be stuck with him for the rest of their lives.

      * * *

      Six months later, Samir left for boarding school. Biren received a postcard with a beautiful photo of the marble domed Victoria Memorial of Calcutta.

       Dear Biren Roy,

       This is the Victoria Mangorial.

       It is very fine.

       I am very fine.

       I hope you are fine, also.

       Very truly yours,

       Samir Kumar Deb

CHAPTER

       12

      It was Shibani’s hair-washing day. Her jet-black hair, a whole yard and a half long, tumbled in tresses down to an old sari spread on the ground for the purpose. She sat on a footstool in the courtyard while Apu rubbed coconut oil into her scalp, parting her hair in sections with a wide bamboo toothcomb. Shibani’s eyes were closed and her head bobbed willingly under her friend’s massaging fingertips. She looked blissfully relaxed. Beside her stool was a brass bowl containing a solution of soap nuts and shikakai for her hair wash.

      Shibani squinted up at the gathering clouds. “Looks like rain, don’t you think? Maybe I should put off washing my hair today. It will never dry in this humidity. I always catch a head cold when I sleep with wet hair.”

      “Then, you will have to sleep with your oily hair tonight,” said Apu. “This is your last oil massage for a while, sister. Remember I am leaving for my cousin’s wedding on Friday. I will be gone for a whole month. Tomorrow I have to prepare all the sweets to take to the groom’s house. Coconut balls, rice cakes and palm fritters. I will send the maid over with some for you.”

      “Do you have enough saris for all the days? You are welcome to borrow some of mine, you know.”

      “Oh, no, no. Your saris are too expensive and fancy. You know what these family weddings are like. With hundreds of people coming and going, things get lost or stolen all the time. I would feel terrible if that happened.”

      “Don’t be silly!” Shibani laughed. “Take my saris. I don’t care if they get lost. I have too many. There will never be enough occasions to wear them all. I’ll tell you what, when you have finished oiling my hair, we’ll go and pick out some for you. I have a beautiful banana-leaf-green one that will suit you very well. Today I am free in the evening and I can do the hems for you.”

      * * *

      That same morning on his way to work, Shamol Roy had noticed the clouds in the east had swallowed the sun. The river turned a dark and oily black against which the jute plants, eight feet tall, glowed an eerie and electric green.

      Shamol fretted because he had not picked up his umbrella from the umbrella man. Now from the look of the sky they were heading for quite a downpour.

      He arrived at the jute mill godown to find it still locked. Usually his assistant, who lived in the jute quarters nearby, came early to open it. The bullock carts laden with bales were already lined up outside. Shamol went to the main office to pick up the godown key and learned his assistant was sick and would not be coming in that day. Mr. Mallick, the mill manager, assured Shamol he would send help immediately.

      By midday, no help had arrived and Shamol was finding it increasingly difficult to manage on his own. It was a brutally hot and humid day with no respite, not even a cup of tea. He had to run back and forth from the weighing scales outside to the ledger in the godown. The bullock cart lines grew longer and backed up all the way down the road to the bazaar. By early afternoon Shamol realized he would have to lock up the godown and drop off the keys at the main office at the end of the day. This meant he would most definitely miss the last ferry home. His only option was to stay overnight at a relative’s house in the village, but before that he would have to send a message home through Kanai. Maybe Kanai could bring back a change of fresh clothes for him. If not, he would have to borrow something from his cousin to wear to office the following morning.

      But despite the harried day, he did not forget his son’s pencils. He had collected six stubs from the office, each two or three inches long. He wrapped the pencils in a piece of blotting paper and put them in the front pocket of his tunic.

      Finally the last bale was weighed and the bullock cart ambled away, tinkling its bell. Shamol Roy made the last notations and closed his ledger. He sat down at his desk and felt the weight of the day slump on his shoulders. It was getting dark inside the godown. He knew there were candles and matches tucked around somewhere, but only the assistant knew where.

      He was about to leave when the rain crashed down like a wall of glass. Shamol was trapped. There was nothing he could to do but wait it out, but he would have to find the candles before that.

      He groped his way to the back of the godown. Squeaks and scrabbles emanated from the bales, and a small creature with scratchy claws ran over his feet, making him jump. To his relief he located the candles and a box of matches on a small bamboo shelf on the back wall. Shamol lit two candles and made his way back to the elevated platform of his desk. He considered shutting the door of the godown to keep out the rain but then it would get terribly stuffy. As it was, a thick vapor was rising off the floor and the smell of rot and decay from the bales was almost too much to bear.

      He realized he had not eaten anything all day. The potato and fried flatbread Shibani packed for him that morning lay untouched in a cloth bag on his desk. He opened the bag and ate his cold food in the flickering candlelight while rain crashed and splattered outside. This kind of torrential rain usually did not last too long, he thought thankfully.

      He missed Shibani and the boys. He was spending only one day away from his family and he was already homesick. He wondered what they were doing. Shibani was probably chatting with Apu. The boys would be out playing somewhere; there was no schoolwork after all.

      His thoughts turned to Biren. The child was a dreamer. Biren saw the magic in the mundane. He imagined things bigger, better and more elaborate. When most children made a paper boat, Biren made a steamer ship with a chimney. When other children drew a duck, Biren drew a swan. He had natural showmanship and expressed himself with touching eloquence. His flashy good looks added to his charisma. Biren had curly hair, a straight nose and a wheat-colored complexion, but his most striking feature was his dark, expressive eyes.

      Then there was, of course, little Nitin with his wandering smile and look of perpetual bafflement. No star quality there, Shamol thought tenderly of his younger son, but God had given the little fellow his own charm to get by in the world.

      He wished he could do more for his boys. They deserved a better education, for one. He remembered what Shibani and he talked about a few nights ago by the river. She was right. Maybe he should broach the subject of the English boarding school with his boss, Owen McIntosh. There was no harm in asking after all.

      The rain had almost stopped. In another ten or fifteen minutes he would be able to lock up the godown and leave.