And Barilal was an informer.

One day, Binu sent Harbart with quite a lot of money, and a receipt book printed with pictures of Mao Tse-Tung and Lin Pao, to be delivered to one Bijoy in the Lake Market area. Bijoy then took him to Kalighat, to a spot behind the Greek Church. There, a man wearing glasses, stubble-chinned and sunken-cheeked, embraced Harbart and said, “Congratulations, comrade! Binu has told me a lot about you. We need more loyal friends like you. Have some tea.”

On the way back, two boys helped him negotiate the Manohorpukur crossing. Somewhere, somewhere close, a bomb exploded.

Harbart never came to know that in 1971, on the morning of May 9, when Bijoy was hiding in Baranagar, when Bijoy crept out to buy some food, when Bijoy was standing at a small shop in the market, then Bijoy was shot dead by the police.

Binu had not been back home for a long spell. Dhanna-dada sent off a letter to Krishnalal, Binu’s father.

Krishnalal wrote back:

Binu is a young man now. He knows what he is doing. And he is not alone in this, for there are many others like him who too have arrived at such knowledge and such a decision. Therefore, there is no question at all of my asking him to stop. Binu’s mother, too, entertains an agreement with my opinion. However, I understand that this is posing a difficulty for the household. So I am thinking of other arrangements. But I will have to request time until I can be in Calcutta again.

I hope Baba and Ma are well.

To Harbart and to your sons, my …

But Krishnalal did not have to make other arrangements, after all.

One night, on Elgin Road, on the walls of the ship-shaped house, when three boys were using a stencil to paint the face of Mao Zedong, then one of the men sleeping on the pavement on the other side of the street removed the sheet from his face and fired. One boy, standing on the shoulders of the other two, was painting. That boy fell. The other two tried to drag him away. But the air grew thick with the sound of running feet, the air grew shrill with the sound of blowing whistles. At the request of the wounded boy, the other two left him and fled. The wounded boy tried to drag himself along on his belly, scraping himself along by his elbows.

A few yards. At most.

The pavement was streaked with blood.

Then he lost consciousness.

Sub-Inspector Santosh realized: Prize catch! If Binoy could be helped to live, he would be helped to spill a lot of beans. So, a cabin at PG Hospital. A doctor.

“The lungs are punctured. Nothing to be done. Any time. Tell the family if you know them.”

The family was told. Dhanna-dada sent a wire to Krishnalal. Harbart spent all his time at hospital. Even though he had lost most of his blood between the pavement and the floor of the police van, an indomitable life-force kept Binu alive for another forty-eight hours.