‘No one knows!’ Pawan said. I had nothing to say after that.

A frozen past in the gullies of Cheenapatti had come alive.

I was standing in front of the Chinese Club, which in the past was vibrant with the sound of festivity and Mahjong.

I walked through the gullies of Cheenapatti with Gautam, Pawan and Shankar. My eyes had gone moist now and again trying to find the Cheenapatti of the past in that gully which is now full of Biharis, Assamese, Bengalis, Marwaris and other communities.

An ancient lane, now fading away, with typical Chinese-style houses by its side, still there as before. Only, time had wiped out the colours. Only, time had swallowed its people.

I could hear Yiu Yi’s cheerful voice saying, ‘Mei Lin acheee, Sipahi dadaaaaa!’

I could hear the familiar call of the Chinese mothers to their children for lunch.

The gullies of Cheenapatti were bereft of any Chinese. Ming and Co. had shut down. Pawan’s elder brother had bought the factory. K. P. Lee’s factory is still running, under a different name. Ah Fuk’s son Aman had bought it in an auction.

Pawan and Shankar did not know what had happened to K. P. Lee. I do. I heard his story from Lailin’s mother. How he died a pauper after he was deported to China from the Deoli camp.

‘And A. C. Chow? Have you heard about him?’ I asked Pawan.

‘He is no more. He died a few years back. He died with lots of suffering. He was also arrested later. After he was released, he could not get either government or private contracts. He was a broken man. Slowly, all his properties were sold off. I have heard that his children still live in Ledo. Very poor.’

‘What about Chitta and Johori Khan? Do you know them? Where are their shops?’

‘The shops are no longer there. I heard that Chitta died a long time back. Don’t know where his family has gone. I don’t know where Johori Khan is either. Not many people of that time are there.’

The grocery and cloth shop of Mahabir Prasad Shah was not there. I went to his house to meet Thakur Prasad. He was sitting in a room filled with the stench of cow dung; cows were tied in the small courtyard of the dilapidated house. The entire environment showed signs of poverty. As if it was the cowshed of Murli Gola.

‘I don’t remember anything. It has been a long time.’ He answered my questions with an innocent face. But I could see in his eyes the devilish pleasure of a vengeful person.

‘I had many friends. I don’t remember anyone’s name.’

‘Dulal Yem? Have you forgotten his name, too?’