To find

It Was the Time of the Northwester. A Memory from Our Childhood.

Bidhu, Sidhu, Nidhu, Tinu, Badal, and many others of us had gone to bathe at the riverbank after the scorching midday heat. The day was drawing to a close.

Bidhu was the eldest among us. Suddenly, he pricked up his ears and said, “Hey, listen—”

We all tried to listen intently. Hearing nothing, we asked, “What is it?”

Bidhu didn’t answer. He still stood with ears cocked.

Then he cried out again, “There—it is—listen!”

This time, we too heard it—the faint rumble of clouds in the far western sky.

Nidhu scoffed, “That’s nothing.”

Bidhu scolded him, “What do you mean, nothing? Do you even know what that means? When clouds rumble in the west during the month of Boishakh, don’t you know what that means? A storm is coming. We’re not getting in the water now. It’s a Nor’wester!”

By then, we all understood what he meant. A Nor’wester storm meant mangoes falling!

The mangoes under the Bardwajyas’ orchard were famous in this region—sweet as anything! They ripen just around this time. When the storm hits, everyone rushes there. Whoever gets there first, wins.

We all said, “Then let’s not bathe.”

But the sun was still shining brightly on the treetops. Many of us still had our doubts. There was no sign of a storm or rain yet—just that distant rumble.

Would it be wise to foolishly rush to the mango orchard just based on that faint hint?

Bidhu cleared all our doubts—as he always did.

He declared he was going to the mango orchard, and anyone who wished could follow.

That settled it. We all followed him.

Very soon it was clear how much smarter he was than us.

A fierce storm rose, black clouds rolled in from the west, tree branches bowed and broke in the gusts, dust turned the surroundings dark. Cool winds blew, and then came the rain—first in drops, then a heavy downpour.

Under the large mango trees, children were already gathering. Mangoes fell like hailstones. Every child had an armful.

We too collected plenty—so many that we were bent under their weight.

Some of us wandered off to other orchards, some went home to drop off the mangoes.

Badal and I were returning home along the river path in the evening darkness. The path was deserted. Branches lay strewn from the storm—thorny branches of wild trees blocked the way. We carefully stepped over them in the dim light.

Suddenly, Badal tripped over something and fell.

“Hey, what’s this?” he said.

I picked it up. It was a tin box, locked shut.

In our village, such boxes were called "double tin cash boxes." We knew they were used to keep money.

Badal grew excited.

“Let me see—do you recognize it?”

“Yes, a double tin cash box,” I said.

“Must have money inside.”

“Could be jewelry too. It’s heavy.”

“Of course. Money and jewelry, no doubt!”

We sat down under a tamarind tree to decide what to do.

Our beloved mangoes, for which we had braved storm and rain, now lay neglected in our bags.

Badal said, “No one knows we found this.”

“True,” I said. “No one does.”

“What should we do then?”

“The box is locked.”

“I’ll break it open with a brick if you say so—who knows what’s inside!”

“Wait! Don’t break it! That would be wrong. It might belong to a poor man—he must be suffering, unable to sleep tonight. We should return it.”

“Return it?”

“Yes, I’m thinking we should.”

“But how will we find the owner?”

“We’ll have to figure that out. We won’t do something unjust.”

Just like that, both our minds changed. We suddenly became pious.

We brought the box home through the rain and storm.

At Badal’s house, we hid it in the straw pile.

Later, a secret meeting was held at the corner of Badal’s broken natmandir.

It was a rainy day—the sky was overcast, cool winds blew. The first days of the monsoon. The air smelled sweet with the scent of champa flowers. Frogs croaked from Narahari Bostam’s pond.

As per our leader Bidhu’s instruction, we had gathered.

Returning the box was our first and final proposal.

In our hearts, we had already accepted it before the meeting started.

The real question now was—how to find the owner?

Anyone could claim it. How would we know who the true owner was?

After much discussion, Bidhu finally had an idea.

“Cut paper in kite-size sheets,” he ordered.

We obeyed—no one dared disobey Bidhu.

We handed him the paper.

“Write,” he said. “Let Badal write. His handwriting’s neat.”

“What should I write?” Badal asked.

“Write in big letters—like capital letters. I’ll dictate.”

"We have found a box. Whoever lost it, inquire at Raybari.

Signed—Bidhu, Sidhu, Nidhu, Tinu."

Badal and I protested, “What about us? We found it—why aren’t our names there?”

“Write everyone’s full names,” said Bidhu. “That’s fair.”

We wrote three such notes and pasted them to different trees near the riverbank with bel fruit sap.

A couple of days passed. No one came.

On the third day, a dark, thin man came and stood in front of our temple. I was sitting there studying.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Sir, are you… Idirbhishonkar?”

(My name, mispronounced.)

Annoyed, I said, “What kind of box?”

“Wooden.”

“No. Go away.”

“No sir, not wood—tin.”

“What color tin?”

“Black.”

“Nope. Go.”

“Wait sir, maybe reddish—”

“No. Go.”

The man left, embarrassed. I told Bidhu—he said, “Not his. He’s greedy. More like him will come.”

A few more days passed.

Someone else came. His description didn’t match either. Bidhu dismissed him too. That man left threatening to call the police. Bidhu scoffed, “Do whatever you want. We didn’t find a box.”

No one came after that.

Then the monsoon arrived in full force.

There was a massive flood.

We saw large trees, even cows, floating in the river.

The Kapalis of Ambarpur lost everything—their fertile lands, their homes, their crops.

One evening, a man came to our house.

Father was sitting with his ledger. Villagers were around him.

My brother and I were forced to study nearby.

The man greeted, “Greetings, sir.”

“Where are you from?” Father asked.

“From Ambarpur. We’re Kapalis.”

“Sit. Have some tobacco.”

He had come seeking work. The flood had left him homeless.

His family was sheltering in a shed nearby. No food or clothing left.

Father said, “Eat here today.”

The man sighed, “I will, sir. We live on your charity now.”

Then he said, “It all began last month. I was coming home from market after selling vegetables. I had about 250 rupees worth of gold for my daughter’s wedding, and fifty rupees cash. It was all in a tin box. On the way home, it must’ve fallen off the bullock cart. I never found it again. That was the start of my ruin.”

Father said, “What? That much lost?”

“Yes sir, fate is cruel.”

I had been listening intently. I suddenly asked, “What color was the box?”

“Green tin,” he replied.

Father didn’t know about the box. He scolded me, “Focus on your studies!”

But I had already leapt to my feet and rushed to Bidhu’s house.

Bidhu listened and said, “Wait. I’ll bring Sidhu and Tinu. They’ll be witnesses.”

He was wise—everyone said he’d become a lawyer someday.

In half an hour, a small crowd had gathered in front of the temple.

The man was stunned to see the box. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

He kept staring at us. “Sirs, are you humans or gods? Such kindness to a poor man?”

Bidhu wasn’t one to be swayed easily.

He said, “Check if everything is in order. And write us a receipt in front of this gentleman, alright? Uncle, could you give him paper?”

Can there be any doubt? Bidhu would surely become a lawyer!

My father was so stunned that he couldn’t utter a word.