...We could count the bricks. Twenty-five years after we left our house in Mukteswar - it was still stubborn, still standing and losing parts of itself with each winter. The ferns, banyans - one root at a time, they have re-arranged and re-decored like a dutiful tenant.
Not so long ago, Maa and Ranu used to share the same lamp to pray in that yard. On the Tanpura, our days were marked. Summers were usually quiet. Maa and Baba used to keep their fights for stormy nights. Their sensibility to keep their children happy went through seasonal sacrifices. I never mistook father's hushed shrill voice during thunders and Maa's measured weeping with the harmony of rains.
Ranu's paper boats used to be bigger than mine. Mine used to be faster. To her, I was selfish to build them for myself. But I had to win.
Our family days were numbered. Baba was poor but no way mean. He poured his heart and pocket into buying us colorful dresses during Puja. My eyes did not mistake the happy tears in my mother's when she used to hold a new saree. Baba used to say, new clothes are not good for his skin. Sometimes we get convinced too easily out of distraction; on other times, it is convenience.
We left the house when I got a job. Ranu got married. I counted 19 letters until she realized my boat had sailed. Baba, Maa stayed with me. By then I won enough for them not to share anything, not even me.
This time when we returned to our village, on Baba's insistence and my annoyance, he wanted to stay the night with the trees. Next morning, through the dense fog, I saw them under the banyan he planted when I was five. Both holding hands, eyes grayed. So dead, that they were smiling, yet so alive.
It took me thirteen days and longer nights.
Finally, it rained.
I built the biggest paper boat I could
and sailed it safe.
It had enough place for us four
and the nineteen letters Ranu did not get.
...
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