The final exam results are out. All the students are shouting with joy on their way home. But Basanta has no joy in his heart. He's returning home with a glum face. It’s not like this is his first time. He had studied hard, yet he didn’t pass.
Basanta can’t understand why, despite writing so much, he doesn’t pass. Last time, when he saw a garden of red marks in his answer script, he was surprised and asked the teacher why he had scored so poorly.
The teacher called him close, finished off a whole cane’s lifespan on him, and began reading from The Life of Adam and Eve as if he were delivering a grand lecture. The other boys laughed till they cried. Basanta was so thoroughly “pampered” with fresh bamboo that neither the lecture nor the classmates' mockery made it to his ears.
The roadside beauty is not lacking. The untended babla, shirish, and tamarind trees are there, along with branches of jamrul, mangoes, and lychees hanging temptingly beyond the bamboo fencing. If Basanta made a little effort, he could easily reach them. His hands itch. But he restrains himself.
He has failed. He doesn’t deserve to have any pleasure. Will his parents scold him today?As long as Grandma acts as his shield, no one dares lay a finger on him.
He sometimes thinks of telling Grandma about the math teacher’s extra attention. But where’s the teacher’s fault? He never skimped on teaching. He even took Basanta home, fed him mangoes, sapodillas, lychees, and advised him to focus. Told stories of Kalidasa’s perseverance and Bopadeva’s dedication. Explained in detail the benefits of studying.
But Basanta only shares the discipline part with Grandma. And if Grandma, roused to battle-mode, pounces on the teacher, wouldn’t that be betrayal?
Basanta thinks a bit of discipline in childhood is okay. What the home lacks, school makes up for. He’s now turned down the path toward their house. Taking the main road would’ve taken three times more effort. This path cuts through fields. During the rains, it floods.
Yet, people have no other choice but to use it.
In monsoons, Basanta carries extra clothes. If he can’t shine in studies, at least his consistent attendance catches the teachers’ eyes—No matter the storm, rain, or mud, Basanta is there in school. If he’s ever absent, teachers and classmates become endlessly curious. Next day, he has to stand before a barrage of questions and explain his absence in full detail.
At the turn in the path stands the formidable Ashesh Dadu. They say he’s quite old, but it doesn’t show. He walks upright. Can tell what crops are growing half a mile away with his bare eyes. Whether it’s bitter cold or scorching heat, he wears his eight-hand dhoti and fatua.
Ashesh Dadu grins and says, “You failed again, didn’t you? I told you, you wouldn’t pass. Didn’t I? My words never lie. A donkey in a Brahmin’s house, where’s that from!”
When Basanta tries to escape, Ashesh Dadu grabs his arm tightly and says, “You can’t run away. If you’d passed, maybe you could move ahead. But failure? It’ll chase after you. How about this—Quit studying and go herd cows in the fields. What joy! Play the flute, tend cows, collect dung... what more could you want?”
Basanta wriggles free and starts running.
Ashesh Dadu shouts, “Think about what I said though!”
Next morning, Basanta had just opened the front door to sit in the sunny courtyard, enjoying puffed rice with nolen gur...
There stands Ashesh Dadu with a “smile please” grin. He says, “So, what do you say, have you decided?”
Basanta drops his bowl and runs inside, slamming the door shut. The family dog barks, “Chased by a bull, huh?”
Basanta doesn’t try to be saintly Yudhishthira. Without a word, he heads straight to the kitchen.
At noon, Basanta is playing dang-guli with his friends, the top item in the village Olympics. Bodhan hits so hard the stick flies fifty hands away into a bush. Bodhan is in the same class as Basanta. Stuck in grade five for three years. Thanks to a loose knot in the rules, he’s now lucky enough to be in grade six. He’s worse than Basanta in studies.
Basanta’s grandma believes bad boys like Bodhan are the reason Basanta’s gone astray. She’s forbidden Basanta countless times, but he never listened. He’s returned home with injuries, been scolded and beaten. Basanta has sworn he won’t go again. But when shadows grow long and the sun heads west, the Raibabus’ farm draws him like a siren’s call.
It’s a chorus of games out there. Basanta chases after the stick, goes into the bushes, and sees—Ashesh Dadu again! Sitting behind the bush.
Basanta freezes. Forgets to run.
Ashesh Dadu grins and says, “So, we’re sticking to that plan, huh? I have ten cows. We’ll split the dung half-half. A bull in a Brahmin’s house, where’s that from!”
Basanta bolts. Friends call after him, “Hey! What happened? Running like that? Saw a ghost?”
In the winter farm, dung spreading is in full swing. Mother says, “Basanta, go get the dung bucket. Soak the rag from the pond straight to the compost pile. Then from there to the storage mound. You can do it, right? Then you’ll help with the alpana. When it dries a little, I’ll light the diya.”
Basanta says enthusiastically, “Of course I can do it!”
Aside from studies, he’s quite skilled.
In his mind he sees the clay stove ablaze, rice cakes puffing, sweet coconut filling inside—the adorable round baby Gopal. And so much more. If he ever tries to sneak a bite before offering to the gods, Ma scolds him, “It’s for the deity first!”
Grandma says the gods enjoy food in the form of children. It’s fine. Even the Supreme Court agrees.
Basanta is now in the field with the dung bucket on his head. From behind the compost pile, Ashesh Dadu appears again—grinning— “Hey, remember? Half-half.”
Shocked, Basanta dumps the entire sacred bucket on his own head and runs home.
Ashesh Dadu laughs wickedly: “A bull in a Brahmin’s house!”
Basanta has no peace in his heart. Always roams around feeling low.
One day, he’s at the pond throwing stones. The waves spread wide, touching the shore. He sighs.
Madhup Kaku is passing by. He works in a factory in Kolkata. He’s a relative, his father’s cousin. He places a hand on Basanta’s back.
Basanta jumps.
Madhup Kaku says, “If you’re sitting, sit with a fishing rod.”
Basanta sighs again.
“What’s wrong, why so gloomy?”
Without hiding anything, Basanta tells him everything.
Madhup Kaku laughs, “That’s all? If it’s left a mark on your heart, you can mark the paper too. But first you need to get rid of your ‘Rahu’. Do one thing, next time you see Ashesh Dadu, say something.”
Before Basanta could say yes or no, Madhup Kaku whispers a secret mantra in his ear and walks off laughing.
Ashesh Dadu wakes at cock’s crow, walks around the village, reports on crop diseases, suggests remedies, clears storm-fallen branches from the road...
At dawn, Basanta stands at his doorstep. Ashesh Dadu opens the door and is about to say, “So you’ve come to your senses,”
When Basanta starts weeping.
“What happened?” asks Ashesh Dadu.
“I saw in my dream that you died... and morning dreams come true!”
Ashesh Dadu’s face goes pale. He shuts the door with a bang. The whole day, he’s nowhere to be seen.
Next afternoon, Basanta knocks on his door again. When Ashesh Dadu opens it, Basanta sobs, “Here’s some starfruit. From the tree. Eat. Your last meal.
I dreamt again, afternoon dreams come true too. They were taking you to the cremation ground!”
Ashesh Dadu slams the door.
For three days, Basanta knocks. No answer. He begins to feel guilty.
Maybe Madhup Kaku’s advice was wrong. What if the old man dies of fright and turns into a ghost!
A few days later, Basanta is on his way to school through the field path. He sees Ashesh Dadu coming from the opposite direction, looking worn out.
When their distance closes to about a hundred feet, Ashesh Dadu spots Basanta and covers his ears, running away in the opposite direction. But Basanta isn’t letting go. He runs after him.
Ashesh Dadu trips and falls in the field, unconscious, bleeding from the forehead. Basanta pours water on him from his school bottle. Ashesh Dadu opens his eyes, sees Basanta, and closes his ears again, whimpering.
Tears come to Basanta’s eyes. He pulls Ashesh Dadu’s hands away and says, “This morning I dreamt, but it wasn’t you. It was Bipin Dadu. The one who died of cholera last year. From Majhi Para.”
Ashesh Dadu jumps up and laughs, “Oh, thank goodness! So I’m not dying yet! So much still left to see in this world. Now I’m sure you will pass. Give me your water bottle. My throat is parched. Good lord, you scared me!”
“You’re bleeding. Let me wipe it,” says Basanta.
“Don’t worry about that. Go to school. Now, let’s see who dares stop you from passing!”
Basanta felt light-hearted. He headed off toward school.