Yiu Yi’s aunt Parbati was leaning on the doorway absentmindedly. Her face was clouded in utter grief and frustration. Yiu Yi walked over to Parbati. Stretching out a hand full of toffees, she said slowly, ‘Have some toffee, ah sam.’

Parbati picked up a toffee silently with a gloomy smile.

‘Take some more, there are lots. Sipahi dada brought them for me.’

‘Who is Sipahi dada?’

‘You’ve forgotten. It’s Robin dada, the tall military man with the big moustache! He has given me a doll as well. You bought this sari for New Year? It’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, your uncle gave it to me.’ Parbati said, her mind still far away.

Yiu Yi held her hand and asked softly, ‘You are thinking of your family, aren’t you?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can tell from your expression.’

‘Yes. Always listen to your parents, Yiu Yi,’ she said suddenly. ‘I didn’t listen to mine.’

‘What did you do, ah sam?’

When Parbati didn’t answer, Yiu Yi pressed harder, ‘Tell me. You’ll feel better, I promise.’

‘We were very poor people. Without land of our own to cultivate, we were at the mercy of the zamindar. One day a man came to our village and told us about a place called Assam, a place with plenty of work and no zamindar. My parents didn’t believe him. But I did and left with him. It was only after boarding the train that I realized I was a “girmiteeya”, a bonded labourer. The contractor engaged me in Silghat tea garden. My job was plucking. I used to pluck the tea leaves and cry. That is where I met your uncle. He loves me a lot. He is a very good person. Everyone in your family is good. God has been merciful to me.’

‘You could have gone back to your home with my uncle. Why didn’t you?’

‘I couldn’t remember the address. I’ll never see my family again, Yiu Yi!’

Yiu Yi hugged her aunt and wiped her tears with her little hands. ‘Don’t cry, ah sam. We are all here for you. Maa says the place which feeds us is our own. That place is our mother.’

Cheenapatti was still celebrating. Holding on to Yiu Yi’s hand Parbati stood silently. It was almost dawn when the festivities wound down. The people, exhausted from the celebrations, had gone to sleep. The only person still awake was Thakur Prasad Shah. Wrapping a shawl around himself, he went about stealthily tearing down the lanterns and the red posters with golden lettering hanging over the lane. He trampled over the lanterns that were strewn everywhere. There was no trace of guilt on his face. Instead, it glowed with the blaze of vindictive happiness.

Four

Four

‘Five stars are flying high in the sky.’