Kolkata, West Bengal
Prabhas isn’t just my classmate; he’s my friend too.
Thin, wiry, and dusky, with a round face and dreamy, gentle eyes. His flat, rounded nose and reddish, curly hair gave him a distinct appearance. Their ancestral home lay across the Hogol River in the village, where there was no high school. For better job prospects for his father, they moved to our village, and he joined our school. A boy with a simple and pure heart, Prabhas and I soon became close friends.
Summer vacation began. After school ended, everyone poured out of the classroom in excitement, buzzing with energy. A long month of vacation lay ahead—our hearts like birds set free to fly.
“Will you come to our house, Ontu?” Prabhas asked hesitantly, quickly correcting himself, “I mean, our rented place?”
Curious, I asked, “Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
“What’s it?”
“You’ll see! Just come!”
His insistence carried an earnestness, his face glowing with mystery. Sensing something intriguing, I teased, “Alright, but what will you offer me to eat?”
His face turned sheepish, almost apologetic. He mumbled, “Cold water from our earthen pot.”
Though surprised, I felt a wave of respect for their humble circumstances. “That would be perfect in this heat!” I said, instantly regretting my earlier joke. I felt slightly guilty for even teasing him.
As the fading yellow hues of the evening bathed the surroundings, we walked along the broken, dusty road that wound its way toward Makhaltola. The dusty lane, flanked by modest clay houses with straw roofs, was alive with everyday scenes: chickens clucking in courtyards, ducks waddling in ponds, and children playing noisily. The air was filled with the scent of the earth and the hum of village life.
Prabhas’s family lived in a modest clay house, tucked in a cozy corner. The small veranda in front served as both a workspace and a storage area, with an earthen stove and a pile of firewood on one side. On the other side, his mother sat stitching a quilt, her focus intense. Seeing us approach, she adjusted her saree’s pallu to cover her head, her shyness almost palpable.
Prabhas introduced me warmly, “Ma, this is Ontu, my friend from the new school. We’re in the same class.”
She smiled, her voice tender with motherly affection. “Come, son, come inside. It’s just a poor man’s hut…”
I bent to touch her feet, only for her to draw back quickly, alarmed. “No, no, my child, stay well. Grow up to be a great man!” she said, visibly flustered. Despite her protests, I insisted on bowing.
“Go, Prabha, take your friend inside,” she urged gently.
Inside, the room was dim and damp, with only two small slits for ventilation. A simple wooden cot occupied one side, layered with threadbare quilts and pillows. Clothes hung from a bamboo stick nailed to the wall. Prabhas invited me to sit on the cot while he pulled out an old, rusted trunk from underneath.
Unlocking it with a creak, he retrieved a newspaper-wrapped bundle, tied with twine. Carefully unwrapping it, he revealed two exquisite glass tumblers, colorful and ornately designed.
“Wow, these are beautiful!” I exclaimed.
His eyes sparkled with pride. “My father won these as a prize for playing the flute in a folk theater. I’ll serve you water in these.”
I protested, “These are special; they shouldn’t be used. Let’s use another glass.”
But Prabhas was adamant. “No, I’ll serve you water in these. It’ll make me happy.”
Relenting, I watched as he filled one of the glasses with cold water from their earthen pot. Taking a sip, I felt the refreshing coolness soothe my throat and soul. “This is amazing!” I said, marveling at the taste of the simple water and the beauty of the glass. The dim light played with the colors, casting a magical glow around us.
Seeing his joy, I realized how much this gesture meant to him. To serve a dear friend with something his father had earned—his pride and happiness were unmistakable.
As I handed the glass back, I said, “Keep it safe. Wash it and put it back carefully.” Rising, I added, “I should head home; it’s getting late. They’ll worry.”
“Will you come again?” he asked, his voice soft with longing.
Prabhas, though he aged, remained childlike in spirit. Academically, he struggled and often sat at the back of the classroom. Yet, he had a knack for winning hearts. He had an unspoken but deep affection for me, expressed through his actions rather than words.
Perhaps his academic shortcomings made him overcompensate in his friendships. But I understood. Our bond transcended the simple metrics of academic success. Friendship, after all, isn’t measured by marks or achievements but by the warmth of shared moments.
During tiffin periods, Prabhas would joyfully mingle with the younger kids, playing their games and winning their hearts effortlessly. It was as if he were one of them, their classmate, their age. Even outside school, he spent his time with them—playing games, running around the fields, and wandering across the village. This carefree camaraderie with his gang amused us, his older peers.
While we played football and cricket, often spiritedly debating national tournaments, Prabhas showed no interest. Despite all our coaxing, he refused to join us on the field. Instead, he stuck to his favorites—marbles, gilli-danda, kite-flying, and spinning tops.
With winter's arrival, Prabhas’s pockets would bulge with marbles, and a danda in hand completed the picture. From Vishwakarma Puja onwards, his kite-flying escapades began. Armed with a spool of string and self-made kites crafted from bamboo scraps, he’d take to the open fields, accompanied by his gang. Buying kites from the market was a luxury, so he built his own.
Prabhas would immerse himself entirely in kite battles, often forgetting food or sleep. Some evenings, as darkness blanketed the earth and stars peeked through the sky, his kite would still hover at the horizon, like a lone star. His deft maneuvering of the spool made the kite dance across the sky, painting whimsical patterns on nature’s canvas.
One twilight, spotting me, he gleefully said, “Do you want to fly it, Ontu? Here, take it!”
Before I could protest, the spool was thrust into my hands. Startled, I froze. I had never flown a kite before and knew nothing about it. Holding the spool awkwardly, I looked up, squinting at the dim sky. A few scattered clouds and a faint glow in the east made it hard to locate his kite.
Sensing my struggle, Prabhas exclaimed, “What? You can’t see it? There it is!” Pointing skyward, he guided me, “Between those two small clouds…”
Prabhas seemed ready to pluck the clouds from the sky, place his precious kite between them, and show me its exact location. For him, it was that simple. Moments later, as stars claimed the night, the kite vanished, lost in their shimmering congregation.
As I prepared to leave, he said, “Stay with me for a few days, and you’ll learn. It’s easy. Do come back.”
I chuckled inwardly at his enthusiasm, marveling at his connection to his kite. It seemed like the string was a lifeline, whispering secrets about its location, whether hidden by clouds or glowing brightly in the sky.
Prabhas excelled in marbles and spinning top games. A master at aiming, he would often win, only to generously share his spoils with the younger kids. His face would light up with a wide, carefree smile—a testament to his simple joys. His strength amazed us, as he would strike the gilli in gilli-danda with such force that it zipped through the air, making a sharp whooshing sound. “That’s inner strength,” our gym teacher, Govinda Sir, often said. “Not everyone has it.”
This “inner strength” was a mystery to us. We didn’t fully understand it but were in awe of it nonetheless. In games like Pittu, Prabhas’s throws were so precise and powerful that he’d topple the stacked stones in a single shot, scattering them everywhere. And in marbles, victory came to him as effortlessly as breathing.
Winter also brought the excitement of Ramayana plays in the village. These performances, organized for school and club development, left their mark long after they ended. Kids would reenact scenes from the play in small groups, parroting lines and mimicking characters. Even the girls’ roles—like Sita, Surpanakha, or Mandodari—were performed with playful enthusiasm.
Prabhas, however, owned the role of Ravana. With his thunderous voice, he brought the cruel, cunning demon king to life. Holding a whip fashioned from taro stems, he’d bellow at the captive Sita:
“Speak, woman! Speak!
Will you bow to me?
Or must my whip crack
And turn your blood to water?”
His dramatic flair and booming laugh left everyone wide-eyed. For those few moments, Prabhas wasn’t the shy, gentle boy we knew—he was the mighty, fearsome Ravana.
Saying that, he laughed again. Cracking the whip.
How out of place was Ravana’s role in that face! We used to laugh. We enjoyed all his antics. We used to say, “Prabhas hasn’t grown up!” But he didn’t care. At the edge of the village, under the shade of a big tree, he would gather his gang and enact the Ram Jatra. And as usual, he would play the role of Ravana.
In the youth opera, in the Hitler role, Shantigopal’s performance in the play created a stir in the village. Could Prabhas keep himself separate from that? He became Hitler himself. At the end of each dialogue, in the voice of Hitler, Prabhas would shout: **“I am Hitler!!”**
This sent a chill down the spine of the audience! That’s what he would shout while walking down the street. Hearing this, five or six people would say, “Look at this crazy boy’s antics!” Many even started calling him “Hitler” He responded to it with a smile, as if he was happy to be Hitler.
He wasn’t just truthful, he was also trusting. He believed in others. His belief in ghosts, spirits, and evil spirits was strong. He had a great interest in telling and listening to such stories. He could tell them in a way that kept everyone hooked. We would listen, rapt. Whether we believed them or not didn’t matter; the fact that he could tell the whole story with such conviction was his greatest talent.
One day, he whispered to me,
“Do you know, Ontu, there’s a ghost in that old tamarind tree in our neighborhood? A cow-ghost!
I pretended to be surprised and said,
“Really? That tamarind tree near the animal clinic?”
“Yes, yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Many people have seen the cow-ghost there. But it doesn’t harm anyone. After all, it’s a cow, a harmless creature! The cows that die without treatment become ghosts and take residence in that tamarind tree.”
I asked,
“How does it show itself? Does it appear when you look at the tree at night? Or does it come down from the tree and follow you?”
“No, no,” he interrupted,
“It’s not like that. You have to write your name on the tree. Only the brave ones can do it. That night, the cow-ghost will show itself.”
From a very young age, I grew up in this village. I had never heard that there was a ghost in that tree. I understood that someone must have told him a made-up story. He believed it, without question. I feigned special interest and said,
“Ah, so that’s it. Who told you the story about the cow-ghost?”
He replied, “Nandu Jethu.”
“Nandu Jethu! When it comes to Nandu Jethu’s ghost, he must know his studies!”
Nandu Makhala, the elder of Makhla Para, was the village’s oldest resident. He worked in Subal Dutta’s shop, selling paan, bidis, and cigarettes. He rolled bidis with his hands. Nandu Jethu had an amazing natural talent for storytelling. He even made up stories about himself. In his youth, he claimed he had gone to the Sundarbans to cut wood and encountered a tiger. He fought the tiger in an epic battle, killing it and returning home with his chest puffed out. The scars on his face, he claimed, were from the tiger’s claws. In reality, he had suffered from a severe case of smallpox in his childhood, and those marks were from the disease. People who didn’t know the truth believed his story, thinking the scars were from the tiger. But Nandu Jethu had such confidence in his storytelling that people believed it was a true story.
Prabhas, being new to this village, had been told the unreal ghost story by him. I had never been afraid of ghosts and spirits. After watching plays and programs, I used to walk home through the dark, no fear at all. However, one time, I really did get scared—not by ghosts, but by a cobra standing with its hood spread in the dim moonlight. I had carelessly stepped near it!
I said,
“I’ll go and write my name on that tamarind tree. Let’s see how the cow-ghost shows itself!”
He said in a fearful voice,
“You might faint out of fear, Ontu. Dealing with ghosts takes a lot of courage; don’t try such recklessness!”
I understood he wasn’t trying to scare me, but he didn’t want me to get hurt. I didn’t listen. I stubbornly picked up a piece of chalk that had fallen under the class blackboard, put it in my pocket, and told him after class,
“I’m going to write my name on that tree today. Let’s go.”
The massive old tamarind tree stood tall, spreading its cool shade across an area of about an acre, its dark trunk as thick as three men’s arms. Its branches spread like a dense, thick jungle. Looking at it, I watched the leaves, flowers, fruits, and birds flitting about. Where was the cow-ghost? Only leaves and flowers were falling to the ground below.
He asked, “What are you looking at?”
I replied, “Looking for the ghost.”
“You don’t know anything, Ontu. Can you see ghosts in the daylight? Now, they mix with the air and become invisible. When night falls, they take shape, donning the cloak of darkness. Then they start their work.”
Laughing, I wrote my name on the trunk of the tree in big, bold letters, so it could be seen clearly from far away. Whether the ghosts sat on the branches or came down to the ground, it didn’t matter. I made sure both the young and old ghosts could read it easily.
No, that night the cow-ghost didn’t appear. Neither while walking in the dark nor in my dreams. Sitting at the study table by the window, the pitch-dark outside was just like any other night. The rustle of night-birds’ wings, the fireflies flying about, and the sound of mice scurrying across the dry leaves below the trees were the only noises. I had wanted to see the ghost, but it didn’t show itself. Strange!
He said, “Actually, you’re a very good person. There is no sin in your heart, so the ghost couldn’t get near you.”
I couldn’t laugh anymore. I asked, “Did Nandu Jethu say that too?”
He was silent.
The festival was approaching! For Prabhas, it was the ultimate joy. Although the festive atmosphere didn’t quite fill the air yet—the kash flowers hadn’t bloomed, and the idols of the gods and goddesses had just started to take shape in the workshops—Prabhas was already filled with excitement. He couldn’t wait. Every day, after school, he would visit the clay sculptor Gauranga Pal’s workshop to see how the idols were coming along, and he would tell us all the details with excitement.
At that time, our village had only two Durga Pujas: one in the Hindustan Para and the other in the Pakistan Para. The two were separated by no more than a quarter of a mile. The people who had migrated from East Pakistan after the partition had started the Durga Puja, and thus, the name stuck. The older, more established Puja was in the Hindustan Para, and the newer one in Pakistan Para was held in a pandal. The small village didn’t have electricity, and the shops used kerosene lamps. The light from them barely reached the streets. The pandal had a generator for some lighting, and a few strings of tube lights adorned the area. This modest setup was the illumination for our autumn festival. Amidst these two simple celebrations, we indulged in the joy of the festival.
We spent our pocket money riding the giant wheel, eating snacks like chotpoti, beguni, phuluri, and plates of ghugni and alurdom. When tired, we would sit and rest here and there. Sometimes, we would sit by the busy ferry ghat, where people from the other side were coming to see the idols. The sounds of drums and cymbals floated across from the other side. The river carried small waves of light, and the stars above twinkled. It was a beautiful sight.
Prabhas experienced the festival in a way that was all his own. A 10th grader, he would carry two toy pistols from the day of Panchami. His pockets were filled with caps for the pistols, and his companions were the younger children. They would form two teams and start mock battles everywhere. Along with the popping sounds of the caps, he would shout, “Dum-dum! Patas-patas!” He wore cheap new clothes—pants and a shirt—barefoot, enjoying the festival with pure joy. He had no cares about hunger or thirst, only the sounds of excitement. We, on the other hand, had grown out of playing with toy pistols by then, in 5th or 6th grade. Now, we were senior students, respected by the younger ones, but Prabhas didn’t care about that respect. He was still a child at heart, playing with toy pistols!
It was summer. One day, after school, we were walking home in a group when Prabhas made a bet with two friends. They decided to race across the flooded Hogla River, and the winner would be treated to 100 grams of jalebi by the other two. Leaving their books on the riverbank, they jumped into the river, and we crowded around to watch the bet. Our game teacher, Mr. Govinda, joined the crowd and commented, “A flooded river is a risky bet, but let’s see who wins.”
Mr. Govinda forgot about going home. Prabhas was swimming with equal speed as everyone else. We cheered for our favorite swimmer, and I was, of course, cheering for Prabhas. As the others reached the middle of the river, we saw that Naveen and Ananta, realizing the difficulty, were turning back. But Prabhas didn’t stop. He swam with greater speed toward the other bank. By the time Naveen and Ananta reached the shore, Prabhas had already crossed and was waving at us, grinning. We waved back and cheered for him.
Mr. Govinda said, “That’s what a true fighter looks like. It’s not just about skill and strength; it’s also about quick thinking and courage, which he has. Naveen and Ananta could have swum to the other side and still earned credit for finishing the race, even if they didn’t win the bet. That’s called the spirit of sportsmanship.”
Then, Prabhas came back to join us.
The body was wet with brine, sticky and damp. There was a victorious smile on his face. Sir placed his hands on his two shoulders, shook him, and said, “Well done, Prabhas!” Then, looking at us, he said, “This is what a true sportsman looks like. It doesn’t matter if he’s not good at studies, there’s a lot to learn from him.”
Prabhas bowed down to Sir, touching his feet, and then stood up. We picked him up and cheered with excitement. The newcomers, Nabir and Anant, also joined the group. It seemed Sir’s words had inspired them both!
The three months after the secondary exams passed in such enjoyment. The results were out. Prabhas barely passed. After that, the time came for us to drift apart and spread out to pursue further education. Some of us moved to Kolkata, while many went to smaller towns. Most, like Prabhas, stayed in their village schools. He couldn’t afford to enroll in schools or colleges in other places.
During holidays, I would return to the village. It was a joy to meet old friends and chat. Every time I was about to leave, Prabhas would come to the ferry ghat to bid me farewell. I would get into the boat, and he would wave his hand saying, “Come back again, Antu.” And I would remember the day I first left for Kolkata. He had been waiting for me at the ferry ghat exactly on time. Before boarding the boat, we had stood face-to-face, shaking hands. His eyes were filled with tears. I controlled myself with great difficulty. He said softly, “Whenever you’re on vacation, come back, Antu. There’s nothing to do in the city. How long can your heart stay there?”
I understood that my absence was causing him a great deal of pain. I returned to the village after several months. I saw Prabhas handling the cash at Ashu Moya’s sweet shop. Ashukaku was sitting on a chair outside the shop, swinging his legs, joking with anyone who passed by. Ashukaku was a very generous man. He was passionate about football. Whenever a local club won a shield or trophy, he would treat the players to sweets. He would lead the victory parade, holding the shield or trophy high above everyone else.
I was surprised. Did Prabhas give up on studying? I stood in front of the shop, and when he saw me, he seemed to shrink back, almost nervous. His face showed hesitation and shyness. He asked quietly, “How are you, Antu? I heard you’ve come.”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“This is how you see me!” he sighed deeply.
“So, did you give up on your studies?”
“No, I didn’t. I’ve enrolled in college. I go sometimes. I study as much as I can at night. After all, I have to support the family!”
“What about your father?”
“My father is no more!” His voice nearly cracked, and tears welled up in his eyes. He said, “While playing the flute at the Ramjatra in Shibganj bazaar, he collapsed on the ground. That’s where he passed away.”
My heart ached for him. I felt the desire to share his sorrow, but I didn’t have the words to comfort him. Still, I said, “Such a death of an artist is not only a matter of pride but also of dignity. You should be proud of that, too.”
Suddenly, his tear-streaked eyes seemed to sparkle. His face lit up. He smiled slightly and became more active in his hospitality. He said, “Have some sweets, Antu.”
I tried to refuse, “No, no. I just had breakfast and left home.”
“You won’t eat?!” He was persistent. I knew that today, he wasn’t just offering water, but also sweets. I could tell that if I refused or didn’t pay for them, it would hurt his feelings deeply.
He quickly arranged two rasgullas on a plate and placed a spoon with them, handing it to me. As I took the plate, he quickly went to the back of the shop. That’s where the water tap, washed glasses, plates, and spoons were kept. I ate the sweets, cutting them with the spoon. He returned with a large glass of water and placed it in front of me. I drank it all in one go, feeling immensely satisfied. That satisfaction was his love, his deep friendship. A memory came to me. I asked, “Do you still have the two glasses that your father won as awards?”
“Yes, I do,” he said in a cheerful voice.
“His memory. You’ve kept them well, I’m glad,” I complimented him.
“One of them is a memory of you too. I’ve kept it safe.”
“My memory?” I asked, astonished. “Why would it be my memory?”
“Yes, it’s yours,” he said sincerely, “You drank from it, didn’t you?”
I was stunned, looking at him. Even today, he remembered that day! The first time I visited their rented house, he had served me water from his father’s award-winning glass!
The smile on his lips, full of unblemished friendship, was something I would never forget, no matter how many days passed.