Ranjana wakes up very early in the morning, birds still chirping outside, even before the dawn breaks out. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster may be crowing. She washes her son’s blanket, takes a bath, offers prayers to the deity kept in a corner of the house, and quickly cleans the dirty dishes. Her husband Nirmal’s tutoring students will start arriving soon. She takes out the cooking pot containing leftover rice from the fridge, wipes the rice out, and places the rice on a chipped tin plate, ready to give away to the beggar.
Leaves are scattered across the courtyard, damp and stuck to the floor from the previous day’s rain. Ranjana has already swept the area as part of her morning routine. Hearing a knock at the door, she carries her son in her wet hands and unlatches the door. Groups of schoolgoing kids, leaving their shoes on the veranda, enters inside and head straight to the bedroom where Nirmal tutors them. Except for holidays, Ranjana finds it almost impossible to enter her bedroom. There’s a short break around midday when Nirmal will eat before resuming his tutoring at three in the aftenoon. One batch after another, he teaches and then in the evening he leaves home to tutor at two other homes.
Throughout the tutoring sessions, Ranjana sits outside the house, in the small concrete courtyard between the veranda and the kitchen. The corners of the courtyard are covered with thick green moss. She hangs a saree as a makeshift curtain, creating a little private space. Three sides are walled, and the saree forms the fourth. From morning till evening, this is Ranjana’s temporary “room.” Here, she puts her son, Bishu, to sleep, takes a short rest herself, and, lying under the saree, observes the shoes in front of the veranda. A variety of shoes are left there. Some have worn-out soles, almost split in the middle and studded with countless nails. She often thinks, “This time they’ll surely replace them. How can they last more than a week?” But, to her surprise, the shoes outlast her predictions and endure for months, tricking her each time.
Minu stepped outside with a bucket of clothes and peered under the saree draped as a curtain to see Ranjana chopping green bananas. Beside her, little Bishu was gnawing on a banana peel. Minu wasn’t surprised by Ranjana’s usual carelessness—she thought Ranjana never learned how to properly care for her child. Minu, still groggy with sleep, yawned as remnants of dried drool lingered on her cheek. Heading to the courtyard, she noticed the dirts from the leftover dishes hadn’t been cleaned yet. Her irritation was evident. “She’ll never clean the surroundings of the tubewell properly after she cleans the dishes” Minu muttered to herself, grabbing a broom from the corner and scrubbing the area thoroughly before rinsing it with water. She slammed the bucket down loudly to make her displeasure clear to Ranjana, all while scrubbing Titli’s quilt.
“Oh Didi, there’s a girl standing there for so long. Could you turn on the tap She says she’s thirsty.” Ranjana, timid as always, hesitated before speaking from the courtyard. Her six-month-old son, who had momentarily abandoned eating peels, was now making noise with a rattle, wobbling and falling as he tried to shake it. On his forehead was a large smudge of kajal (a type of mascara), and a talisman hung around his neck. Ranjana firmly believed that the talisman, brought by Nirmal’s mother from Kali Mandir last month, had protected Bishu, especially after his week of loose motions.
Minu turned and saw a fifteen-year-old girl standing there. She was wearing a simple cotton dress embroidered with patterns, looking shy and hesitant, as if she were asking for more than water-perhaps a glass of sherbet. “Oh my, if you want water, just ask me! I didn’t even notice you,” said Minu. The girl smiled faintly, leaned towards the tap, and drank. Minu kept scrubbing Titli’s quilt, saying, “Let me know if the water splashes on you.”
After finishing the laundry and feeding Titli, Minu prepared to visit her maternal home. By eleven, the sky had darkened, a clear sign of an impending storm. Durga Puja was around the corner, and it often rained heavily during this time. Minu wore a slightly better cotton saree, tied her damp hair in a bun, and carried a fabric bag over her shoulder. Inside were Titli’s milk tin, a napkin, a small quilt, and Titli herself in her arms. She latched the wooden double door behind her and crossed the drain in front of the house, pinching her nose against the stench.
Crossing the field, she reached a stagnant pond surrounded by water hyacinths and dense helencha shrubs along the edges. The rain had freshened the vegetation, turning the greens vivid, and the pond was now adorned with purple flowers. Turning left, she reached the old two-story house near the market, where her parents lived in a ground-floor flat on the left. “Can these even be called flats?” she thought. Still, they were better than her home—more respectable. The bathrooms, toilets, and kitchen were inside. Though not a modern flat, it was still an old, dignified house. Two drooping croton plants stood like sentinels near the stairs. A narrow drain and some unnamed shrubs, along with hibiscus and rose bushes, lined the wall—flowers her mother used for morning prayers.
In the long veranda, five-year-old Rupam was playing, surrounded by signs of a household lived-in. The yellow walls bore dark stains from dampness, and the intricately patterned iron grilles were cluttered with various necessities—cleaning rags, a broom, and other items. A latch lay in one corner. The walls were painted yellow on top and black at the bottom, showing years of wear. On a windowsill rested a pen stand, and a calendar hung on the wall. Seeing Minu, Rupam ran toward her, shouting, “Masi!” His fingernails were filled with dirt.
“Slow down, dear! You’ll wake up Titli,” Minu scolded, but Rupam paid no attention. He grabbed Minu’s bag, rifling through it like it contained treasures. “Didn’t you bring anything for me today?” he asked.
From behind a curtain, half drawn to let in light while maintaining some privacy, Nandita, Minu’s sister-in-law, called out, “Minu, you’re here? How are you?” This house had only two rooms. Previously, one room was shared by Minu’s parents, while her brother stayed on the veranda. The other room belonged to Ranu, her elder sister. After her brother’s marriage, Ranu, her parents, and her son were squeezed into one room, leaving the other to her brother and his wife. Ranu’s situation was difficult, but she couldn’t afford to live separately. She had started a teaching job barely a month ago, but as a single mother, her options were limited.
Minu placed Titli on the cot in the veranda and entered Nandita’s room, noticing the unmade bed even at this hour. In the kitchen, her mother was toiling away. Minu felt a surge of annoyance. Well, isn’t she living the life of a pampered wife, Minu thought sarcastically. She leaned on the sofa’s armrest—an old set without any cushioning—and said with a tone of mild accusation, “Why are you folding quilts now?”
“I’m not feeling well, Minu. I caught a cold early yesterday morning, probably because of the rain. That’s why I woke up late today. Still, I managed to make rotis and chop vegetables for Mother. Your brother didn’t go to the market yesterday, so he brought whatever was available in the morning. I prepared breakfast and then lay down for a bit,” Nandita replied.
Feigning concern, Minu touched her sister-in-law’s forehead. She didn’t feel genuine affection for Nandita, especially considering how she treated Rupam. “You feel a bit warm. Did you check your temperature?” Minu asked.
“How would I check it? There’s no thermometer in this house,” Nandita replied, her tone tinged with frustration.
“Father had one. Ask Ranu if she knows where it is; she keeps everything organized,” Minu suggested.
Nandita let out a sharp laugh. “Ranu keeps things organized so well that you can’t find anything anymore. Rupam broke that thermometer ages ago, just like he smashed the bowl from the crockery set. And your Ranu—she’s something, isn’t she? I get it; her husband isn’t here, and she has only her son. But does that mean she should be indulged to this extent? Haven’t I seen enough people raising kids in this lifetime?”
While dusting the bed, Nandita sent a cloud of dust flying as she spoke to Minu. Minu sat silently on the sofa, holding her sleeping Titli. Nandita, a city girl, had no prior acquaintance with Minu’s brother before their marriage. Her father worked in a brassware shop in the big market. Nandita had a round face, dusky complexion, and medium height. She was lively by nature but often lacked enthusiasm for household chores, which Minu’s mother, Sabitri, frequently complained about. Though not strikingly beautiful, Nandita had a sweetness in her voice and appearance. Occasionally, however, she would deliver stinging remarks to her sisters-in-law.
While combing her hair in front of the wardrobe mirror, Nandita said, “Ever since Ranu got her job, you’ve stopped visiting often. If only you could see your sister’s arrogance now. She doesn’t let a word fall to the ground—acts like she’s some kind of royalty! Do you know, Minu, what’s there to be so proud of? A new school—let’s see if they actually pay her. Showing off power before even getting her salary—why would anyone take her seriously? I may not be highly educated, but I haven’t lived under a rock either!”
“Don’t be so impatient, Boudi. The school is good, and I’ve heard they do pay salaries,” Minu replied calmly, though she was seething inside at Nandita’s words.
At that moment, Rupam’s excited shout interrupted their conversation: “Ma’s here! Ma’s here!” He ran to the staircase to hug Ranu, who was carrying a maroon bag over her shoulder. Like a little detective, Rupam began searching the bag for treasures his mother might have brought him. This was a routine in the house—anyone returning home would have their bags inspected by Rupam, just like a police checkpoint.
Ranu gently took the bag from Rupam’s hands and placed it on the veranda bed, saying, “When did you arrive, Minu? How are you?”
“I’m good, Didi. Your saree looks lovely. When did you buy it?” Minu asked.
Wiping the sweat from her forehead with her palm, Ranu glanced at her saree and smiled. “Where would I buy it from? It’s Boudi’s saree. Dada brought it for her the other day. I told her, ‘You’re always at home; let me borrow it for a few days.’”
Nandita appeared in the doorway. Noticing her, Ranu’s smile turned mischievous as she began to remove the hem of her saree. “What’s the matter, Boudi? Worried because I’ve worn it for two days? Don’t worry; I’ll return it before it gets old,” Ranu teased.
“I didn’t say that, Ranu! Wear it as long as you like. After all, Dada bought it for you. You have every right to it. I didn’t bring it from my parents’ house to lock it away in a chest,” Nandita replied with feigned politeness.
Ranu paid no heed to Nandita’s words. She calmly removed the saree, folded it neatly, and placed it on the windowsill. This was her reality—there was no place for her outside this household. No matter what she endured, she had to stay. Minu observed Ranu closely. In just two months, Ranu had changed significantly. She seemed to have learned to take care of herself better. This Ranu was not the same woman who used to be crushed under the weight of kitchen duties and despair.
Now, she carefully cleaned her shoes with a damp cloth and placed them in the sunlight on the stairs. This was the same Ranu who used to neglect even combing her hair, forcing Minu to comb it for her. Yet, there was a distinct beauty about Ranu—not just her glowing skin but the sharp brilliance in her eyes. Despite the smell of oil, spices, and salt lingering on her, her gaze seemed to go far beyond.
Ranu folded the saree neatly and hung it on the veranda’s line. Then she washed her hands and face, applied cream to her cheeks, and lit the stove to prepare semolina porridge for Rupam.
“How’s your school going, Didi?” Minu asked.
Ranu, as if waiting for this question, sighed with exaggerated disdain and said, “Don’t even ask, Minu. It’s such hard work—preparing lectures, checking notebooks, and can you believe how many books kindergarten kids have? It feels like I’m going to school to learn, not teach. But I’m working really hard.”
Lowering her voice and glancing around, she added, “You know how things are with Boudi. Without this job, it would have been impossible to survive. And can I even blame her? After marriage, do women really have their own homes? What we used to call our home becomes our parents’ house, and we end up living in someone else’s household, where we have to tolerate a few harsh words.”
Ranu poured some porridge into a brass bowl and sat on the bed with a spoon. Rupam refused to eat, clamping his mouth shut. As she tried to feed him another spoonful, she said, “The price of milk, Minu! He won’t eat anything if it’s not cooked with milk.”
“Can’t you set some aside for him?” Minu asked.
“Mother does, but look at Boudi—she’s unwell, and Father barely eats rice properly at night. Asking for extra for my son feels shameful, Minu. And I haven’t even received my salary yet. It’s still the probation period.”
“Will they pay you, though?”
“Yes, they will. Apparently, I’ve performed well in these two months. That’s what the principal told me. He’s given me all the senior classes. He really likes me, you know. He said, ‘If we had more teachers like you, one day this school would be the best educational institution in the city.’ What could I say, Minu? I just told him, ‘I’m trying, Sir.’”
Minu listened in awe, occasionally pinching Rupam playfully, which made him giggle.
“They gave me Class Five to teach right from the start, you know. Now, some of the older teachers have started envying me. What’s my fault? Handling senior classes is more trouble than it’s worth—I didn’t ask for it! And the other teachers at school—what airs they have! Most of them are wealthy housewives doing this job for fun. But this job is my lifeline, Minu.”
Just as Ranu began speaking about one of her colleagues, her mother’s voice called from the kitchen, “Ranu, grind the cumin for me!”
“Coming!” she grumbled, muttering to Minu, “There’s no time to sit in this house—you see it yourself.” She wiped Rupam’s face and said, “Come to the kitchen. Let me help Mother. Will you stay for lunch?”
“Yes, Sarit isn’t here. He’s gone to Dhaka for some work. My mother-in-law left yesterday.”
After having lunch and playing ludo with her sister-in-law for a long time, Minu saw Ranu sitting on the veranda, working on her school assignments. The sky had darkened with heavy clouds, but Nandita’s cheerful mood seemed undisturbed. She was enthusiastically recounting tales of their neighborhood, one story after another. Minu was trying to leave but stayed out of politeness, listening to all of it. When she finally made it past the gate of her parents’ house and reached the main iron gate, a torrential rain began. The red bricks by the gate instantly turned dark, as if soaked in blood, and the water running down into the market drain resembled a crimson stream.
Her father was at the shop, her mother was asleep, and no one came to stop Minu or tell her, “Wait for the rain to stop; your baby will get wet.” Cradling her daughter close to her chest under her saree, she opened her umbrella and stood under a tree near the house. Just a few steps away was her mother’s house, but Minu hesitated to go. She thought of Nandita, who had likely gone to relax after seeing her off, and didn’t want to disturb her.
Standing under the tree, Minu noticed people in the market huddled under sheds, waiting for the rain to stop. Some glanced from one shelter to another, eyeing passersby. Among them, one boy stood out. He was about eight years old, wearing tattered, patched clothes. Minu recognized him as a boy who scavenged vegetables from the market. Standing under the gushing water streaming off a tin roof, he was completely drenched. His pale, rain-soaked face looked as white as aluminum, yet he laughed and played joyfully in the rain. Minu wondered, What does it take to be happy in this world? She reflected on her own life and her inability to find happiness with Sarit, a semi-literate gambler from the village.
No one in the market called out to the boy, “Stop playing in the rain; you’ll catch a cold.” How many children like him wander the streets every day? Most people saw them as thieves, picking up scraps under the pretense of cleaning while stealing whatever they could. Their antics made it hard to leave anything outside, and this reputation often earned them little sympathy. Minu had noticed that the boy always looked filthy, with a layer of grime on his skin that resembled ink and hair that was dry and matted like jute fibers. Standing under the water, he repeatedly tried to clean himself, as if imagining he was under a shower or a powerful waterfall that could wash away every germ from his body.
Minu couldn’t help but laugh at the sight and shouted from a distance, “Hey, boy! Stop getting wet!” The boy froze for a moment and turned to look at her. For a few seconds, he stood still, stunned by her address, as no one in the market had ever spoken to him so kindly, using “you” with respect.
Hearing Minu’s words, others under the shed began scolding the boy too, suddenly concerned about his health: “Hey, kid, get out of the rain!” But the boy seemed to enjoy the attention. Now that everyone had stopped to think about him, he became more mischievous, splashing around with greater enthusiasm. Someone threw a stick at him, and in retaliation, the boy hurled a clump of mud right at the man who had thrown it. The mud landed squarely on the man’s pristine white kurta, staining it instantly. Enraged, the man snapped open his umbrella and charged at the boy, but his elderly frame was no match for the nimble child, who disappeared into the fish market in an instant.
The man, seething with frustration, stood glaring at Minu for a moment. His soaked hair clung to his forehead, and beneath his thick eyebrows, his sharp gaze bore into her—the kind of gaze Minu had encountered many times in her life.
Read Chapter 3 here.
