‘Yes. Yes. Now I remember that name. Poor fellow, he was a good man. The Chinese were good people. I feel very sad when I remember them. They were sent away from here. Where they might have gone, poor fellows!’

‘Who looted all the property of the Chinese of Cheenapatti? I know a little. You tell me. You know everything.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t like to involve myself in unnecessary problems.’

Looking at Thakur Prasad’s devilish eyes, I kept on questioning him. Unable to answer my questions, he fled. I went out from his house and came to the Chinese school. It was intact, but now it was a Hindi school. The Chinese characters had been wiped off the arch to write the new name of the Hindi school. One could still see the faded Chinese characters on it.

Mok Min’s shop is not there, and nor are the people who used to read newspapers and play Mahjong in his shop.

It feels as though a war, with its cruel hand, has wiped off a colourful painting drawn by some skilled painter. It has wiped out the landscape of an old town. A throbbing settlement went lifeless in just one stroke of misfortune.

There was no waiting anymore. All hopes were dead. Only a handful of memories remained. Wang Shu Shin, the teacher of the Chinese school, was one among them.

When I met him, he was sitting inside a dull and old restaurant with his aged wife. They lived behind this restaurant. Once, there was a sawmill in this place owned by his father. Theirs used to be a prosperous household. The war destroyed everything. Wang Shu Shin’s mother and one of his brothers and his family were deported to China in the first batch. But the others’ names did not appear on the next list. His father stayed back in Calcutta with his other sons. Wang Shu Shin returned alone. By then, their house and the other properties were sealed as ‘enemy property.’ There was no way to return to Calcutta as strict restrictions were imposed on their movements.