The scrawny East Bengali refugee girl had blossomed in the days to come, Mukundo reminisced. Debendra Banerjee was a respectable farmer back home. He was literate and wise of the ways of the world, even though not highly educated. With his illegal status, the only job Aurbindo had been able to find for him was that of a security guard at a nearby store, part of an upcoming store chain. He had worked diligently, earned the trust of his employers, proved his street smartness and had risen to man the cash counter. His lack of formal education and shaky papers made through typical underground channels meant for illegal immigrants prevented his further rise in the ranks, but he had started earning a decent salary as Piyali grew up. It helped that Aurbindo never let them move out of the house. “If you are moving to something better Debendra Babu, I won’t stop you even for a moment,” he would say, “But if not, then you won’t insult our friendship by insisting on leaving.” Many other necessities also got taken care of informally by the Thakur household. In return, equally informally, Debangi helped Mohima around the house. More like a family member than a servant. Piyali also learned most of her cooking and housekeeping lessons in their house. Debendra Banerjee was free to spend all the money he earned on Piyali’s education. And she didn’t disappoint. She was intelligent, and was also endowed with extraordinarily sharp memory. Using them both she sailed through school, topping throughout. She was quick to lose her East Bengal accent and to everyone’s surprise, she picked up English and Hindi in no time. But even before all her talents had come to fore, Mukundo had been mesmerized by her skill in something close to his own heart. Music. A few weeks after their arrival, he was in his study on the first floor when he heard someone practicing. Without any instrument. No tanpura, no harmonium, no accompanying tabla. Just a strong, feminine voice, coming straight from naval as his own Guru would have asked for. Fascinated, he had come downstairs and then followed the voice to outside the main house. In a few moments he had realized that he was moving towards the little outhouse the refugee family had been settled in. At first, he thought it was the mother. He couldn’t imagine a malnutritioned eight-year old girl having that strong a voice. But on closer hearing, he knew it wasn’t the older woman. Overhearing Debangi’s conversation with his mother –the next day, his suspicion was confirmed. Debangi as well as her husband were pretty much tone-deaf. It was that chit of a girl.  An old neighbor had taught her back home. He had died a few days before they had to flee.

Mukundo’s mother Mohima was a headstrong woman. But she had a soft corner for her only child. So, he had always found it easy to plant an idea in his mother’s head. He planted one soon. And Mohima arranged for Piyali to have music lessons from one of the best teachers available in the neighborhood. Every time Mukundo planned to go to a classical music program, he invited Piyali. She always accepted and Mukundo felt strangely elated when he saw her enjoying the concerts. He was particularly fascinated when for long stretches she would close her eyes, and throw her head back, as if wanting to shut out everything other than the performance of the singer, for which she only needed to use her ears.

What he always found difficult was to engage her in a proper conversation. She always answered his questions. Whether about her studies, or about a performance they had just attended, or about a recent political event. She always answered intelligently and with lucidity. But she never offered anything more. She never started a conversation and never carried one on. It frustrated him. Especially because he would see her have a normal conversation with his parents. He chalked it up to her feeling shy in his presence. He also wondered if his interest in her made her feel uncomfortable. He tried to keep it in check. Aside from invitations to concerts, he never offered her anything himself. If he did want her to have something – a dress, a trinket, a good hobby class, an educational trip, a bar of Swiss chocolate – he went the roundabout way of putting the idea in his mother’s head, who had also grown very fond of the girl over time, perhaps seeing in her the daughter she had always wanted.

—

Piyali felt suffocated at times. Not so much in their small one-bedroom house. But more in the bigger Thakur mansion. The continual kindness of Mohima and Aurbindo Thakur and the simultaneously pleasing and oppressive presence of Mukundo Thakur. She felt guilty about her feeling. She had been extremely fortunate to have the support of this family. She should have been happy. Most of the time she was. But when the suffocation dawned, it’s sheer force dwarfed all other pleasures of life. It was almost to rid herself of that oppressive feeling that she had a string of boyfriends in last two years. And because it was at the university, all too often Mukundo had run into her when she was with one of them. He would look uncomfortable in such situations, though he acted gracefully. And for some reason she felt like screaming at him. She wanted to tear him apart. For what, she didn’t know. Once she had tried to pick a quarrel with him.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she had run after him after his chance encounter with her and her boyfriend and demanded.

“Can’t tell anyone what?” he had asked uncomfortably.

“About who you saw me with.”

“What is wrong with anyone knowing about your friends?”

“You know very well that he is not a friend. He is my boyfriend and Ma will kill me if she as much as got a whiff.”

He had given a discontented sigh, which had infuriated her. Then he had said, “It’s your life. I am not going to poke my nose into it.”

Even though that’s what she had asked him for, the answer had left her annoyed and miserable.

—

To be continued