Dukhi looked beautiful in her finery, but painful memories, still unhealed, engulfed her mind. The young girls sitting around her were giggling amongst themselves.

Right in front of her eyes, in Gualundo and thereafter at the Dhubri coolie depot, one after another, Dukhi’s two children and husband had died. Only her little boy was alive. Holding him to her bosom, Dukhi had prayed to every deity she could remember to keep her son safe.

But two days after boarding the ship at Dhubri, suddenly big watery blains had appeared on the boy’s body. Immediately a wave of terror had spread on the entire ship.

Small pox! Dukhi’s child had small pox!

Slowly, the blains had spread. Most of it had appeared on his face. Because of the blains that had appeared inside his mouth, he couldn’t eat anything. The little boy, who was unable to see, would cry, groping around for Dukhi. Eight days later, at midnight, the boy left the world. Before dying he asked for milk. Dukhi could not fulfil his last wish.

The giggling girls seated nearby couln’t have guessed her misery. With all her strength, Dukhi tried to keep her composure. What was the use of telling them? No one talked about their sorrows nowadays. They tried to be happy. They tried to carry on.

Two torch flames were lit near the spot where the bride sat. People were drinking home-brewed liquor, a few of the older men were smoking hookahs, while the young girls went around serving fried fish and fried tea flowers on bits of banana leaf.

‘It’s difficult to understand the doings of these blasted foreigners,’ Monglu grumbled to himself. Hearing this, Chomra, who was already half-drunk, giggled.

‘Hey Mongla, are you drunk already, that you are grumbling away?’

Monglu lifted his drooping head and spoke, ‘No, brother, it’s nothing to do with getting drunk. You would be flabbergasted too, if you heard what happened.’

‘Tell us.’

‘Yes, I’ll tell you. Do you remember Tejuram Paniwallah of Bilaspur line? Our burra sahab went and fetched a girl for Paniwallah’s son from the Itakhuli garden.’

‘Our burra sahab did that?’ everyone joined in, surprised. They all flocked near Monglu.

‘That’s exactly what happened. When he heard of the match, the burra sahab of the garden was livid. Calling the girl’s father to his office he told him in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t get his daughter married to a man from another tea garden.’

‘Really?’

‘Hearing this Paniwallah was livid, too. Who was more powerful? Was it the burra sahab of Itakhuli Garden or our burra sahab? Paniwallah took his complaint to our burra sahab. He was furious. “Who the hell says so,” he roared. “I’ll go and get that girl for your boy.”’

‘Oh!’

‘Our burra sahab rode all the way to Itakhuli and thundered at their burra sahab. “You’ve got to let that girl marry our boy. Our labourer had spent money over her.” Then he called the girl’s father and asked him if he was agreeable to the match. He said, “Yes, sir.” Our burra sahab then held the girl by her hand and placed her on his horse. After that it was straight to Paniwallah’s house. He deposited the girl there – that’s it!’