I won’t be able to reject a girl who happens to be Aunty’s niece.’

Mahendra said, ‘Well, that settles it then.’

Behari said, ‘But this was a very rash thing to do, Mahin da.You cannot go around putting loads on other people’s shoulders when you have kept yours conveniently free. Now it will be very difficult for me to do anything that’ll hurt Aunty.’

Mahendra looked a little shamefaced. Then he said somewhat irritatedly, ‘So what do you want to do now?’

Behari said, ‘Since you have raised her hopes in my name, I will marry the girl—but all this show of going to see her is not necessary.’

To Behari, Annapurna was nothing less than divine. She sent for Behari and said, ‘This is not right, son—you cannot get married without seeing her. And promise me that you will say no if you do not like her.’

Behari had to agree.

On the appointed day Mahendra came back from college and said to Rajlakshmi, ‘Mother, could I have that silk kurta and my Dhaka-cotton dhoti?’

Mother asked, ‘Why? Where are you going?’

Mahendra said, ‘Just give it now—I’ll explain later.’

Mahendra couldn’t resist dressing up a bit. Though he was going to see a girl for someone else, the very occasion was cause enough for a youth to pat his hair down and spray some essence.

The two friends set out for Shyambazar.

Anukulbabu was the girl’s paternal uncle. His three-storeyed house surrounded by gardens, built with his own hard-earned money, towered over the neighbourhood. When his indigent brother died, he had brought his orphaned niece to stay with him. Her aunt, Annapurna, had offered to take her in but although that would have relieved him of additional expenses, he had refused for fear of compromising his reputation. In fact, he was so fastidious about his status that he seldom ever sent the girl to meet her aunt.

Soon, it was time to look for a match for the girl. But where preparations for the girl’s wedding were concerned, Anukulbabu was unable to keep up his ostentatious ways. His intentions may have been grand, but the lack of money prevented them from being executed. Whenever the question of dowry came up, Anukulbabu said, ‘I have daughters of my own; how can I pay for all this?’ Thus the days passed. It was at such a time that Mahendra made his appearance with his friend, dressed to kill and reeking of essence.

It was early April; the sun was about to set. At one end of the first-floor veranda, decorated with painted ceramic tiles, arrangements were made for the two friends, with silver trays laden with fruits and sweets and icy liquids that condensed into a latticework of glistening dew upon the silver glasses. Mahendra and Behari sat down to partake of the offerings diffidently. Down in the garden the gardener watered the plants. As the scent of wet earth wafted on the cool April breeze, it also swayed and tugged at Mahendra’s shawl. Through the doors and windows around them they could hear slight murmurs, gentle sounds of laughter and the tinkling of bangles.

When they had finished eating, Anukulbabu glanced into the interior of the house and called, ‘Chuni, please get us some paan here.’

A little later a door behind them opened hesitantly and a young girl, shrouded in an invisible cloak of shyness, came and stood beside Anukulbabu, holding a tray of paan in her hands.

Anukulbabu said, ‘Don’t be shy, my child. Keep the tray in front of them.’

The girl bent low and placed the tray on the floor beside them with shaking hands. The rays of the setting sun touched her blushing face. Mahendra caught a quick glimpse of her tremulous expression. She made as if to run away but Anukulbabu said, ‘Wait a minute, Chuni. Beharibabu, this is my younger brother Apurva’s daughter. He is no more and I am all she has in this world.’ He heaved a sigh.

Mahendra felt a bolt of pity strike through his heart. He glanced at the orphan girl once more.

No one had mentioned her age clearly. Close relatives always said, ‘She’d be around twelve or thirteen,’ which meant that she was perhaps closer to fourteen or fifteen. But her blossoming youth seemed caught up in a faltering timidity, perhaps because she was aware of her obligations as a dependent.

Mahendra’s heart overflowed with sympathy as he asked, ‘What is your name?’

Anukulbabu gave her encouragement, ‘Tell him, child, tell him your name.’

The girl answered in her habitually obedient manner, ‘My name is Ashalata.’

Asha! Mahendra felt the very name was poignant and the voice very mellow. Asha, the orphan! Asha, the hopeful!

The two friends came out on the streets, let the carriage go and started walking. Mahendra said, ‘Behari, don’t let go of this girl.’

Behari avoided a direct answer and said, ‘The girl reminded me of her aunt; perhaps she’d be just as charming and good-natured.’

Mahendra said, ‘So, perhaps now the load I placed on your shoulders doesn’t seem quite so heavy?’

Behari said, ‘No, it seems bearable.’

Mahendra said, ‘But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.