Flame Tree Road. Shona Patel

      * * *

      They made their way out of the fish market and walked toward the temple. Shamol carried both jute bags to balance the weight on either side. Leafy mustard greens and bottle gourds protruded over the top of one. There was fish in the other. Biren walked beside him carrying a bunch of bananas and a large brown coconut.

      Charudi—whose full name was Charulata—lived under the banyan tree by the river just outside the village temple. A hollow inside the banyan tree trunk served as her storage compartment. Here she kept a small brass pot and books wrapped in a red cotton towel. Charulata shared the tree with a family of monkeys. The monkeys seemed to have accepted her as one of their own because they never tampered with her belongings and left her in peace. They didn’t afford the same respect to the temple devotees, however. Monkeys ran off with slippers, snatched fruits out of hands, gnashed their teeth and made babies howl. The animals were a nuisance but enjoyed the sanctity of the temple, thanks to Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god.

      As Shamol and Biren neared the temple, they saw Charulata sitting under the tree, gazing out at the river and fingering her prayer beads. She was a tiny bright-eyed woman who wore a piece of white cloth, darned and patched in several places, but clean. Her hair, cropped close to her head, was a snowy fizz. Destitute since her teenage years, Charulata had taught herself to read and write Sanskrit, a language far more difficult than Bengali.

      “She is even more learned than the temple priest,” Shamol once remarked. He had great admiration for Charulata. “She has studied all the great scriptures but the poor woman can never enter the temple.”

      “Why cannot she enter the temple?” asked Biren, puzzled.

      “Because Charulata is a widow, mia, and Hindu widows are not allowed inside holy places. It is a cruel and meaningless custom of our society since ancient times. The poor woman is banned for no fault of her own. But Charulata does not need to go to any temple because she knows that God is hidden in every human soul.”

      Charulata looked up and saw them. She motioned them over with a smile and lifted her hand to caress Biren’s cheek. The skin on her fingers was rough but her touch was tender.

      “This boy gets more handsome every day,” she said softly.

      Biren gave her the bananas.

      “Bless you, dear child,” she said. “Wait, I also have something for you.” She turned around and, reaching inside the tree hollow, pulled out a flat object wrapped in newspaper. She handed it to Biren.

      “What is it?” he asked curiously, setting the coconut down to accept it. He turned the packet over in his hands.

      “A gift.” Charulata looked at him with shining eyes. “Open it and you will see. I made it specially for you.”

      “How is your cough, Charulata?” Shamol asked, setting down his heavy bags. He took out a white handkerchief to mop his brow.

      “Much better, much better,” chirped Charulata. “My nephew, you know the one in Dhaka Medical College, gave me a herbal tonic. But more important he gave me a book of the Brahma sutras. I don’t know if it was the book or the medicine that cured me.”

      “Baba, look!” cried Biren. He held up a slim oblong-shaped palm bark with beautiful patterning in white. He turned to Charulata, incredulous. “Did you make this?” The paisley designs were painted with delicate strokes and closely woven together like the border of an embroidered sari.

      “Why, yes.” Charulata laughed.

      “But how?” asked Biren wonderingly. He fingered the bumpy pattern.

      Charulata dismissed it with a wave. “Oh, it’s just a design painted with a duck feather, some rice flour and gum arabic. You can use it as a bookmark if you like. Do you like it, mia?”

      “It’s beautiful,” said Biren reverentially. “Very, very beautiful. I will use this bookmark for my most important book.”

      “Ah, that would be the Book of Life, mia. The one that’s written by the universe. My book is nearing its end but yours has just begun.”

      Biren studied the design closely. “I can see a B entwined in the pattern. And here, another letter. Oh, I see my name!” He looked at his father with shining eyes. “Look, Baba, it’s my name hidden in the design. It’s like a puzzle.”

      “Yes, I see that,” agreed Shamol. “That is indeed clever.”

      “I paint these palm leaf designs with the names of different gods hidden in the pattern. The devotees like that. The priest sells them in the temple and he gives me two paisa for each. But more than the money, painting the patterns feels like a kind of meditation to me. Now I am thinking of doing some colored designs using vegetable dyes. Turmeric, indigo, vermillion.” She gave a mischievous laugh. “I may not be allowed to wear colors, but God gives me permission to paint in any hue I choose.”

      “You are an inspiration to me, Charudi,” said Shamol. “They can take everything away from you but you still have all the essential things that feed the spirit and keep you joyful. I have much to learn from you.” He picked up his bags. “I could spend all day talking to you, but we must rush home before our fish spoils. Come, Biren, we must go.”

      “Until next time, then,” said Charulata. “God bless you both and thank you for the bananas.”

      “And thank you for the artistic gift,” Biren said, wrapping up the palm bark in the newspaper. “I will put it on my study desk and look at it every day.”

      * * *

      “I would keep it a secret,” said Shamol when they were out of earshot. “Don’t tell your grandmother Charudi gave you the bookmark. Otherwise, she will make you throw it away.”

      Biren was indignant. “I will never throw it away. It is a special gift with my name written on it. Why should I throw it away?”

      “Then, don’t tell Granny because she’ll say it’s bad luck to accept something from a widow’s hand. That is, of course, not at all true.”

      They walked across the riverbed toward the bamboo grove and the road leading to the basha.

      “Do you know it was Charudi who gave you your name?” said Shamol suddenly.

      Biren stopped walking and looked at his father in surprise. “I thought it was Grandfather who named me Biren.”

      “That is what we led your grandmother to believe.” Shamol chuckled. “Left to your grandmother you would have been named Bikramaditya. Your mother and I did not care for that name. Your mother, especially, was vehemently opposed to it so we had to do something. The Sanskrit letter associated with your lunar birth sign is B, so your name had to begin with B. We managed to convince your grandmother to name you Biren and we made Grandfather believe it was his idea. A child’s name dictates his fate in life after all. Nobody in our family, besides your mother and me, know it was actually Charudi who suggested your name. You are the third person now to know this but you must keep it a secret for the reasons I explained to you earlier.”

      Biren absorbed this in silence. “My name means a soldier, does it not, Father?”

      “Biren means warrior. There is a difference, mia. A soldier follows the orders of others. A warrior follows his own path. Sometimes a warrior has to act alone. You, Biren, are the Lord of Warriors. Never forget that.”

      “And Nitin? What does Nitin mean?”

      “Nitin means Master of the Right Path.”

      “Did Charudi give Nitin his name, as well?”

      “No, this time it really was your Grandfather’s suggestion, but your mother and I both liked the name Nitin, so it worked out all right.”

      Biren skipped along and repeated softly, “Lord of Warriors and Master of the Right Path.” More loudly, he said, “I am glad