My Kind of Girl by Buddhadeva Bose Page A

after a few months would she have – but it was ridiculous, why think of all these alternatives, life with Bina had turned out to be perfectly happy.
    The doctor’s testimony was received with excitement. The contractor might have been feeling drowsy earlier but as he heard the tale of The New Nest he laughed loudly several times, and even on the well-formed lips of the man from Delhi there appeared a faint line of amusement. Only the writer seemed lifeless, silent, with his hands in his pocket, his head lowered, but he was the first to speak when the doctor stopped.
    â€œThis was a matchmaking story, not a love story.”
    â€œAll right,” said the Delhi man. “Now we’ll hear the love story from you.”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œNearly three.”
    â€œNearly three? How long the night is! How terribly cold! No news of our train yet?”
    â€œNone whatsoever.”
    â€œThen let’s try for some sleep – even in our chairs won’t be too bad.”
    The contractor spoke in a voice hoarse from having been up all night. “Nothing doing. You cannot escape. It’s your turn now.”
    The writer stood up abruptly, taking his hands out of his pockets and rubbing them together, then rapidly pacing around the room a few times. After this little show, he sat down again and said, ill-temperedly, “Love story? When it’s as cold as this? Fine, all right.”

Chapter Five
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    T HE W RITER’S M ONOLOGUE
    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 atime 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