She talked so little to her father. Once in a while when she did, it was often in the form of shouting or quarreling for no reason. It made him an unhappy man, and it broke Mukundo’s heart too. After his wife’s death, he had been living solely for his daughter. His helplessness and pain were evident to everyone.

And yet – it was not possible to dismiss her as an insensitive soul. It was the same girl who would spend the entire night by her father’s bedside if he fell ill. One person she did defer to was Mukundo, although she fought with him. There was an inexplicable pain he saw her dealing with about which nobody was able to do anything. It manifested sometimes in her self-loathing and at others in her hatred and distrust of the entire world. But he had never seen her articulate it as well as during their Gourinagar trip. It was a village of displaced farmers, who were still waiting for their compensation, pitiable as it was going to be. Mukundo ran an NGO, which, among other people, worked with these farmers too.

“What is the point of living, of life, Mukundo Babu?” she asked as they made their way back to their little hut-dwelling one evening.

He got alarmed, but realized that she looked thoughtful, not suicidal. “Everybody finds their own reason, Pihu.”

“What is your reason? Why do you live?”

“I live for the beauty that is there in the world… I live to be able to create something. Creation is powerful… I live for people…”

“For people like these… Here in this village…”

“Them too, yes.”

“And what is the point? They still whine and curse their luck.”

“They are poor, displaced farmers, who are struggling to stay alive. What do you expect from them? Just because we mean well, things don’t get well for them.”

“How would it matter if they died?”

“Because they are poor?”

“No. How would it matter if even we died?”

“Life is a precious thing. It is our duty to preserve it. That is why God has given us the instinct to preserve it. Why are you talking like this?”

She jerked out of her thoughts on realizing what he might be thinking. She smiled at him sadly, “No. Don’t worry Mukundo Babu. I might not be sane, but I am not suicidal either. I am too much of coward to commit suicide.”

“Committing suicide is cowardice, Pihu. Staying alive is not.”

“Nah! That’s just philosophical nonsense. I will never commit suicide, because I am too afraid of pain. The physical pain that would invariably precede death. Would you be able to cook some fish tonight, Mukundo Babu? I am tired of eating dal and vegetables every day.”

“Let’s take a detour to the market to see if some fish is available.”

At the end of the trip, he had asked her, “Will you come again?”

“I don’t know. Probably no. Why?”

“I can use your help, Pihu, in my work. Here. Or even back in Kolkata.”

She had chuckled, “So that I have something to keep me occupied? And I don’t go around acting insane? No Mukundo Babu. That would be a very selfish reason to impose myself on the poor, unhappy people you are trying to help. I won’t work with you.”

“Previous semester’s results will be declared tomorrow,” he had changed the subject, “I hope you hadn’t left your answer sheets blank in the exam.”

“No,” she had said matter-of-factly, as if there was nothing amusing or extra-ordinary about the question.

—

“Where is she, Mukundo?” Mr. Banerjee called him at eleven at night.

“I will go and bring her back,” he replied.

“Why don’t you tell me where you find her? You don’t have to do all the running around yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me, Kaka. I am fine. You please take rest. Go to sleep. It’s so late…”

“How can I, Mukundo? How can I?”

“I’m leaving right away.”

He knew where she would be. The jamming place, which was more about drugs and drinks than music. He had found her there several times earlier too. And she would just go completely silent if he tried to admonish her, or make her talk about what took her there.

“Are you taking drugs?” he had asked.

She had shaken her head on that – the only reply he ever got.

Mukundo felt nauseous as he entered the place amidst loud and erratic cacophony of musical instruments. How could Piyali stand this? Piyali – with such a soulful voice and such natural grasp of the all that was beautiful, serene, soothing about music. His Piyali! He looked around anxiously for her and was shocked. Earlier she would usually be lying in a corner by herself, quiet. Today the sight of her would have put the scenes from hippie movies to shame. Why was she dancing like that? He walked as fast as he could through the maddening crowd to reach to her group. She suddenly turned with her chest thrust out swaying wildly to the tune of some song Mukundo did not recognize. He didn’t want to think of the word lewd, but what else was it? She froze as she saw him. It was as if suddenly someone had jolted her out of an alternate world and brought her back to the reality. The expressions of shame and guilt washed over her face as she withdrew. Mukundo must have looked very angry, because by the end of it she looked terrified and she ran out. He could not follow her as swiftly, but when he did catch up with her, she was waiting near his car looking dull and depressed. Thankfully she hadn’t run off. He opened the passenger door and she went in meekly. He drove silently, acutely aware of the smell of alcohol coming from her. She fell asleep by the time they reach home.

“Mukundo Babu,” she looked at him and giggled, as he woke her up and helped her out of the car. The alcohol and sleep seemed to have erased the memory of her earlier mortification. “I knew you would come. I had no money to come home.”

“Why didn’t you have money?”

“I gave it all away.” Mukundo believed her. She was capable of doing that.

“Why didn’t you take the car?”

“I hate that car.”

Despite feeling a strong urge to give her a piece of mind, Mukundo knew that she was in no condition to listen or understand. As he supported her wobbling form through the short walk to the door, he hoped that Promila, and not Mr. Banerjee, would open the door.  But his hopes were quashed.

“Piyali!” the alcohol was impossible to miss.

Mukundo silently continued taking her to her room, when she spoke to both their surprise.

“Baba. Baba – I do love you Baba.”

What was up with sudden proclamation of love!

“Don’t leave me Baba. Please don’t die…” And she passed out again.

Mukundo and Mr. Banerjee stared at each other wide-eyed for a moment. Then Mukundo proceeded to take her to her bedroom. He made her lie down on the bed, took off her sandles and tucked her in. He stared at her innocent face for a moment before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

“Go to sleep, Kaka,” he preempted Mr. Banerjee’s attempts to talk, “She is safe. We will talk tomorrow.”

He himself was more anxious than usual that day.

—

To be continued