For the first time of his extremely short existence of eleven years, Babui didn’t think of fear. The gas-lights of the streets adjacent to the jomidar-bari seemed to glow with an angry fervour to him. He tiptoed across the empty street and stood beside the horse-cart, recontemplating his decision. Should he or shouldn’t he?
Flute music was wafting in the air, caressing him with gentle touches, when he entered through the gate. The darkness had by now descended upon him like a thick blanket trying to suffocate him. With hurried steps he came upon the door.
“Nayeb moshai? O nayeb moshai!”.
Stunned silence.
“Who is it?”.
“I…I am Harilal’s son, sir”, stuttered Babui softly.
“Harilal the farmer?”.
“Yes, sir”.
“What do you want?”, asked the treasurer sternly.
“I want to meet Krishnarai babu – its very important”.
“At this hour of the night? Are you mad? Go home. Come tomorrow…”.
“Please, sir. Please. Its urgent.”, pleaded Babui, at the verge of tears.
“Ei re. Don’t you cry now. Wait, let me see what can be done. You sit here.”
Babui sat down on the chequered marbled floor quietly and waited. The corridor before him was too huge for him to even look at. There were framed pictures and works of art everywhere. A huge chandelier loomed viciously over his head. He could hear voices coming from somewhere. The atmosphere was too overpowering for the small world of Babui. He wondered whether he could have worn that other shirt he had.