They sat looking at the set of photographs. Everyone in them looked as if they had no desire to go anywhere, and there was a strange unhurriedness about the faces and postures. It was almost as if someone had somehow managed to take the pictures after the event.

Words, Silences

Words, Silences

TWENTY YEARS HAD PASSED since I last saw him, and when I came out of the room I didn’t recognise him at first, though I knew it must be him. Twenty years in books seems like a long time, but linear progression actually has no felt shape; in reality, you always live in the present. Mohon was three times the size he’d been then; and since you don’t grow from being medium-sized to huge overnight, he must have had to buy new sets of clothes more than just once.

“Ei Mohon,” I said, putting one arm round his shoulder. His bulk pressed against mine, and he smiled. Yet there was an awkwardness between us—where did that come from?

“How long are you here for?” I heard myself say. “When are you leaving Calcutta?”

“Hey, day after tomorrow,” said Mohon, smiling; and, turning to his wife, he said: “This guy hasn’t changed, yaar. He was more or less the same when I saw him last.” Romola, in a salwaar kameez, rather pretty, got up from the sofa.

“He’s told me so much about you all.” At this point the telephone rang shrilly, and I had to raise one palm to indicate I’d be with her directly.

“Hi, I think this must be the first time I’m meeting you,” I said, after I’d answered the inconsequential query and put the phone down. Now glasses of soft drink were distributed among us, though I refused mine from the boy who worked in our flat.

“What’s it like over there right now?” I meant Tezpur, where he’d been working and living, on an estate, for the last fifteen years. He seemed used to the question, but embarrassed. His wife answered for him.

“It’s boring!” she said, and then giggled surreptitiously, as if she’d let the cat out of the bag. He answered more seriously, although trying not to sound too serious, “The troubles are always there. You just have to avoid them,” making them sound like bacteria you could keep from contracting by observing a careful diet. He said as an afterthought, “Of course you can’t always do that.”

“Where’s your daughter?” I asked suddenly. “Didn’t you bring her with you?”

“Ritu,” said Mohon, with a deprecating look. “She’s gone in with mashi. Mashi came out and took her inside.”

“Strange girl! Not in the least bit shy,” chimed Romola, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t believe the person she was speaking of was her daughter. “She just followed your mother inside.” And she broodingly took a sip of the pale drink.