Or, when they are told to, they dive into the alleys of the Muslim neighbourhood and toss a few hand grenades. They play as long as they feel like when they don’t want to, they storm the cells of Gendi or Bunchi in the dark of the night. In a room foggy with fumes of cigarette, they settle down to a few games of card. They easily turn uproarious as mutton chops and prawn cutlets stream in to enhance the pleasure of downing country liquor. Since most of them are in the business of selling fish or meat, they have cash in their pockets. They all gather in his house – Haaru, Potla, Jaga, Radhu and a few others. He has no family save his aged mother – he had married but his wife died years ago, and he made no attempt to have another after that. His friend Jatin who sells fish every morning and evening. He didn’t stop until he reached Jatin’s house. He only glared at Jasoda for a second before walking out in rapid steps. “Why? Am I saying something wrong, haan ? Something not quite done?” Jasoda knitted her brow, “Just take a round? Chhee! Don’t do that. “Can’t stay put at home any longer, can you?” “Off?” she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. Jasoda had entered the room to pick up something. Donning a mulmul kurta he got ready to go out for the evening. And that is when Ratan’s feet became unruly like a wild steed. The darkening sky above got dotted by a glittering star or two. Their brilliance was dimmed by the smoke from the homely clay oven, sigri. One after another the lamp posts in the winding lane sprung to life. Translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta Gandhi (1869-1948) The victims of the 1946 riots in Calcutta (now Kolkata)
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