We began with Isha Khan's fort. That it had once stood there—the only proof was a small brick structure atop a mound. The locals told us that government people had come some time ago, dug around, and carried things away. Nearby stood a mosque from that same era, the Shah Mahmud Mosque, built in 1664. The structure bore the unmistakable marks of age. There was a sweetness in the sunlight, a kind of peace that had settled over everything. It brought to mind the old mosques of Delhi. Everything here was so austere, so perfectly still, that one felt if you sat long enough in this place, some conversation might yet happen between your inner self and the Creator. From there I moved on to Ragunath Bhavan—an old zamindar's house. Inside, the walls were covered with the gnarled patterns of ancient tree roots. Climbing the stairs, I found what you'd expect in any crumbling old building. Vines and wild shrubs had burst through the brick and stone with shameless pride, along with untamed flowers. Someone mentioned that a couple of large owls had been seen on the adjacent structure until just months ago. The whole house didn't look like a palace at all—more like a house that had become a forest. At the ghat, a trawler was waiting for us. From the Mirzapur market in Pakundia we had brought nimki, sandesh, almonds, and onions with salt and green chilies—along with various other delicacies. We settled on the trawler's roof. The sweetness of the evening sun broke into fragments as we cut through the water toward Toke. Nimki and almonds, onions with salt and green chilies. Ah, what a feast it was! Laughter and food and drink, and with it all the cool, gentle winter breeze of the Brahmaputra at dusk. There was no master there, no student either. We were all friends together. I didn't have to hide anything, didn't have to perform. I could simply be exactly as I was, the whole time. You can look into a friend's eyes so easily—something you can never do with a devotee's gaze, or in the eyes of anyone burdened with judgments about you. Being with them now, the journey downriver had become pure nectar. When the trawler reached Toke ghat, it pulled in to dock. Whoever named this union—did they love poetry? Never mind! As soon as I stepped down, I understood: the area around Toke ghat was essentially a tea settlement. To sit right at the confluence of three rivers, to sip from a cup of tea and watch the smoke dissolve into mist... imagine how wonderful that would be! From a restaurant called Niribili we had mashed vegetables, fried things, greens, small fish, pickles and salad, and paan to finish. After our meal, we all sat together by the river. The sound of water's strike came drifting from the river; and the thin, cool breeze, the sun's joyful surrender to the mist, green carpets stretching in all directions. Nothing pairs better with tea than this. You want to stay here a long time, want to sit facing the river and lose yourself in tea, want to keep coming back to refresh your soul. Nearby stood a massive banyan tree. Under it too, a steady procession of tea cups continued regularly, well into the night. Seeing evening descend, we all climbed back onto the trawler. On the way back, there was no joking with winter. There was no sun to keep us warm—who would save us? So everyone sat under the roof. One or two on the boat's edge, the rest on the bamboo deck. Now we had no choice but to pull up our hoods. Two people jumped off halfway into the mud, wading toward their homes that way. After that, the boat rushed on toward Mirzapur with the rest of us. I always love watching dusk descend, but when it happens on the breast of a winter river, then twilight itself brings down paradise. The water flows on and on with the river's endless prayer of dusk. We had decided beforehand to go to the fair near the Charphlash mazar.
# The Fair
There’s a kind of intoxication to a fair—it seeps into bone and blood and breath, spreading a peculiar fragrance through the soul. Flutes wail in discordant melodies, colored spun sugar catches the eye, the swing rides and circus acts and conjuring tricks seduce with artful insistence, erasing years in a moment. Jalebis glistening with ghee, ice-cream patties, tea, puris and parathas and dal and vegetables, chicken and shrimp cutlets, sweets of every known caste and creed and some invented besides—toys, cosmetics, jewels, what *isn’t* here! Glass bangles held me transfixed for so long in a strange and nameless spell. I kept thinking: I’ve delayed, delayed far too long, I’m always delaying…
We were driving back to Kishoreganj, all of us talking together, when suddenly someone said: why not stop at Hosendi for fresh palm wine? There are people—bless them—whose company you can fall into without hesitation or discomfort, without a single thought burdening your mind. I’d walk into hellfire with such people and happily drink fresh-tapped juice from the tree beside them. How could I not? The car turned around and we raced toward Hosendi. The people there are gentle and educated, but what mattered more to me was this: they’d have fresh palm wine even at this hour of night. What is civility compared to a people who bring peace to the soul at odd hours?
We drove along searching for the palm tapper, and stopped before a half-finished house. Two young men stood pointing toward a pile of straw on one side, calling out something I didn’t catch. Then I noticed something remarkable. In a small temporary shelter made entirely of palm leaves, a man lay wrapped in a blanket. It was barely large enough to crawl into—straw strewn on the floor, the walls an inverted V-frame of woven palm fronds. The architecture of it was genuinely striking, the kind that calls to mind a weaver bird’s nest. I stood watching for a while and asked: “How is it to live there? Doesn’t the cold bother you?” The answer came: “It’s wonderfully comfortable! Once you’re inside, you don’t want to leave. There’s no cold in there, only warmth, endless warmth.”
I won’t pretend I didn’t feel a twinge of longing to sleep in that little palace. We followed the palm tapper as he woke, moving toward the tree whose sap was sweetest. The way he climbed—it was something of an art. He went up the trunk with practiced ease, tied the collection pot to a rope, and lowered it down. That liquid magic seemed to settle peace into our hearts as we stood in the dust of that country lane. I told the tapper: you should drink some too. He said: “Everyone calls me Rosulla, the sap-man, out of affection. It’s because I serve the sap, you see—if I drank it, would they still call me that?” Then I learned: sleep has abandoned his eyes. He moves through the nights in a half-daze, called out again and again from tree to tree, especially after three in the morning, climbing endlessly into the darkness.
I came home this evening full of satisfaction. You don’t need family to come home satisfied—you need *people*, the kind of people who touch your soul. They may be blood relatives or strangers met on a road. Such a small life! Who really thinks about you? If you suffer and die one day with a little sound, what does it matter to anyone? And even if it mattered, what good would it do? Could you come back? Get another life? … So why look at anyone else’s face for meaning? Why not think a little about yourself, for yourself?