One Night

I attended the same village school as Surabala, and we played house together. When I visited her home, her mother always treated me with great care, often looking at the two of us and exclaiming, "What a lovely pair they make!"

Though I was young, I somewhat understood the implication. This instilled in me a firm belief that I had some special claim over Surabala, different from others. This sense of entitlement often led me to boss her around and trouble her. Yet, she bore it all patiently, obeying my whims and enduring my punishments. People in the neighborhood admired her beauty, but to my crude, boyish eyes, her charm meant nothing. I simply knew that she was born to acknowledge my authority, and this made her the subject of my unique indifference.

My father worked as the steward for a wealthy landlord. He hoped that once I grew up, I would learn estate management and secure a clerkship under some landlord. But I secretly had loftier dreams. Inspired by Nilratan, a village acquaintance who fled to Kolkata and became the clerk of a Collector, I aspired to do something similar—if not a Collector’s clerk, then at least a Head Clerk in a Judge’s Court. This, I resolved firmly.

As a child, I observed my father’s reverence for court officials. He would often curry their favor with gifts of fish, vegetables, or cash. This early exposure to their authority led me to hold even the lowliest peons of the court in high esteem. They were, to me, demigods of our land—modern avatars of ancient deities. People now placed their faith in them more than in the divine.

Inspired by Nilratan, I eventually fled to Kolkata, under the pretense of pursuing my education. Initially, I stayed with an acquaintance from our village. Later, my father started sending me some financial support, allowing me to focus on my studies. I made decent progress academically.

Soon, I also joined social reform groups, convinced that sacrificing one’s life for the nation was an immediate necessity. But I didn’t know how to achieve this monumental goal, and no one around me seemed to either.

Still, our enthusiasm knew no bounds. As boys from the countryside, we were serious and earnest—unlike the cynical city boys who laughed at everything. We worked tirelessly for our cause: collecting donations under the blazing sun, distributing pamphlets on street corners, arranging benches and chairs for meetings, and defending our leaders if anyone dared to criticize them. City boys often mocked us, calling us "Bengal’s yokels."

I came to Kolkata with dreams of becoming a Nazir (a court clerk), but I found myself preparing to emulate Mazzini and Garibaldi instead.

It was during this time that my father and Surabala’s father agreed to arrange my marriage to her.

I had left for Kolkata when I was fifteen, and she was only eight. Now, at eighteen, my father believed I was overdue for marriage. But I had made up my mind to remain celibate for the rest of my life, dedicating myself to the nation’s cause. I firmly told him that I wouldn’t marry until I completed my education.

Within months, I received news that Surabala had married Ramlochan, a lawyer. Absorbed in my activities, I dismissed the news as trivial.

I passed my entrance exams and was preparing for my First Arts when tragedy struck. My father passed away, leaving me to support my mother and two younger sisters. I had no choice but to leave my studies and find a job. After much effort, I secured a position as a second master at a school in a small town in Noakhali.

I began my teaching career with great zeal, determined to inspire my students to become future leaders of India. But soon, I realized that preparing them for upcoming exams mattered far more than lofty ideals. The headmaster frowned upon anything beyond the curriculum. Within months, my enthusiasm waned.

Life’s mundane grind had caught up with me. I accepted my fate as one of those average people who dream big but, in the end, bow their heads to routine and survive with quiet resignation.

My quarters were adjacent to the school’s main hall, which stood near a pond surrounded by coconut and betel nut trees. Just beyond lay the house of Ramlochan, the government lawyer—and his wife, Surabala.

Ramlochan and I became acquainted, though I never mentioned my childhood connection with Surabala. Nor did I feel any need to. To me, she was just a distant memory.

One day, while visiting Ramlochan’s house, I noticed faint noises from the adjoining room—light footsteps, a rustle of fabric, and the soft jingle of bangles. I instantly knew that someone was peeking at me through the window.

And then, like a flood, memories came rushing back. I saw those familiar eyes from my childhood—large, dark, and brimming with innocence and trust. My chest tightened with an inexplicable pain.

Back in my room, I couldn’t shake the weight from my heart. That evening, I asked myself why I felt this way. The answer came swiftly: "Where is your Surabala now?"

I replied to myself, "I let her go. Did you expect her to wait for me forever?"

My mind taunted me, "Once, she could have been yours. Now, no matter what you do, you can’t even claim the right to see her face."

I tried to argue, "So what? Surabala is nothing to me now."

But the voice persisted, "True, she is no longer yours. But imagine what she could have been—your closest companion, your partner in all joys and sorrows."

It was true. Surabala could have been everything to me. But now, she was unreachable, separated by an invisible wall. And yet, I could hear the sound of her bangles and feel her presence—so near, yet so far.

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To be continued…