I protested then, a little offended. But I know now that he was right, that the music of a piece of writing becomes richer with the passing of time. Mastermoshai’s Chhelebela, with his life behind him, was not the same as my Chhelebela, at the age of seventeen. The Bengali lessons continued, interrupted by discussions in which we spoke of various things, including my most recent poetry, an inexhaustible theme, and the strangely refreshing absence of tragedy in Sanskrit drama. But we did not complete the book. Mastermoshai had a small disagreement with my mother, and then with my uncle, a few childish, irrational outbursts, after which I myself became rather childishly cold with him. It was not a serious breach and would have healed. I met him again, by chance, a few days later in my uncle’s house. I had put a record of Hindustani classical music on the gramophone and, listening to it, was waving one arm passionately in the air, keeping time with the music. Unknown to me, mastermoshai came and stood behind me, waving his arms as well. When I saw Binoy smiling, I turned. Mastermoshai stopped immediately and became completely serious. With adult restraint, we acknowledged each other, and he went down the stairs.

Soon after, I left for England. Sometimes I would ask my mother on the phone: “How is Bishnu Prasad Chakrabarty?”—for that was mastermoshai’s name. Information about him was scarce, however. It seemed that, after a series of sporadic and silly quarrels, he had left his tuitions and taken up the cooking-oil business in earnest. When I came to Calcutta from England, I longed to make up with him, but no one knew where he was; I heard that he had moved into Ganesh’s house beyond the railway lines, where the nomadic poor—domestic servants, factory workers—lived in a different society with a different kind of life. Then, a few years later, my mother told me that he had died, leaving everything to Ganesh. I see now that the period in which I knew mastermoshai was a transitional one, when, after having lost his wife and children, having seen through life, he returned to his youthful enthusiasms—Baudelaire, Eliot—to temporarily regain his sanity. And then, for no good reason, he loosened his ties again.