My Kind of Girl by Buddhadeva Bose

Author:Buddhadeva Bose [Bose, Buddhadeva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adult
ISBN: 9781843918561
Google: M47eLj2-rwsC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 16566613
Publisher: Archipelago
Published: 1951-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Five

. . .

THE WRITER’S MONOLOGUE

All three of us fell in love with her: Asit, Hitangshu, and I. In the old Paltan area of Dhaka, back in 1927. The same Dhaka, the same Paltan, the same overcast morning.

The three of us lived in the same neighborhood. The first house in the area was called Tara Kutir. Hitangshu’s family lived in it; his father was a retired sub-judge who had made a lot of money and built a huge house at the head of the main road. Tara Kutir was the foremost house in the neighborhood, in all senses: the first and the best. Gradually, many more houses sprouted on the land that used to be infested with grass and burrs, but none of them could match up to Tara Kutir.

We arrived some years later, when the roof to Asit’s family’s house was being laid; Asit had arrived second, just before me. There was a time when ours were the only three houses in the old Paltan area; the rest of it was uneven ground, dust and mud, yellowish green frogs soaking in ankle-high monsoon water and plump, wet, green grass. The same Dhaka, the same Paltan, the same overcast afternoon.

The three of us always stuck together, as much and as long as possible. Every morning Asit would wake me at dawn, calling “Bikash, Bikash,” standing near the window at the head of my bed, and I would rise quickly and join him outside. Inevitably I’d see him waiting on his bicycle, one foot on the ground – he was so tall that my elbow hurt when I put my arm around his shoulder. Hitangshu didn’t have to be summoned; he’d be waiting already by their small garden gate, or sitting on the low wall. Then Asit would ride off on the paved road to school, engineering school, while Hitangshu and I would roam around, hand in hand. The wind smelled of something, of someone, I can smell it still, I can remember something, someone.

Afternoons, the three of us would often go into town on two bicycles, sometimes for cutlets at Ghosh-babu’s famous shop, sometimes to the only cinema hall in town, sometimes to the riverside with packets of peanuts. I never learned how to ride a bicycle, despite my best efforts, but I took many a ride on those two-wheelers, a burden sometimes on Asit, sometimes on Hitangshu, on long journeys, standing or sitting behind them. Many evenings were spent in the fields of old Paltan, sitting or lying on our grass sofa, small stars piercing the sky, thorns piercing our clothes, the lantern on the front porch of Hitangshu’s house piercing the dark and shining dimly, at a distance. Hitangshu couldn’t spend much time with us in the evenings; he simply had to get back home by eight, as his family ordered. Neither Asit nor I was bound by such stern directives: we’d sit there in the darkness, call out to Hitangshu softly on our way back, and he’d interrupt his studies to covertly exchange a few words with us.

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