Translated from the Bangla by Aniruddha Mukherjee and Mamta Nainy
Gopikrishna Babu left his paan box and zarda container in the office today.
He only realized it at the Baubazaar crossing. This morning, he had also forgotten his umbrella at home, thinking it wouldn’t rain. But now, dark clouds loomed over the towering buildings of Central Avenue. He couldn’t afford to leave his paan box behind—anyone could swipe it from his desk. So, he turned back.
The In-charge Babu was deeply engrossed in work, poring over files with intense focus. No one else from their department was around. ‘What a sycophant!’ Gopikrishna thought. ‘Let him work his fingers to the bone. He has to justify that measly hundred and fifty rupees he earns. The times are tough. You never know who might get the axe next.’
Gopikrishna Babu’s salary was fixed at fifty rupees—no more, no less. A raise was out of the question. It was wartime and prices were soaring. Running a household on fifty rupees was nearly impossible. Only those living through it could truly understand the struggle. Sure, there was an overtime allowance—one rupee per day—but how many of those days came in a month? At least the office provided ration, or else his family would have been starving.
Gopikrishna Babu was hungry. The shop down the street was frying up big, fluffy kachoris. The temptation was strong, but could he afford it? Instead, he settled for half a cup of tea and a cigarette at the nearby stall—all for two paise—to keep his hunger at bay.
Across the street stood a red-bricked building that had once been a mess hall. 50/2 Dhanwantri Bose Lane. He did a quick calculation—it was thirty-three years old now. He had been in his third year at Bangabasi College back then. Ah, those days! Bipin, Kanu, Binod Babu, Sheel, Moti, Kangla, cockeyed Shambhu, Sushobhan Mitra ... so many friends, so many debates and discussions. What grand dreams they had! They had planned to head to Bombay, find lucrative jobs, leave everything behind without a care ... marry a Parsi girl and become a Sahib—where had that thought even come from? Perhaps from the times he had stolen glances at the Parsi girls in Eden Garden. He had another dream too—going to England. It had seemed impossible, but back then, life stretched before him like an open road, full of possibilities. Who knew? Miracles could happen.
Shambhu—cockeyed Shambhu—was now Dr Shambhunath Chakraborty, MD, Homeopathy, Gold Medallist. His dispensary had stood at the Baubazaar crossing for years, though business was meagre. On his way home, Gopikrishna often stopped by. It saved him two paise on tea, and patients were rare enough that there was always time to chat.
That evening, Shambhu was reading the newspaper. He folded it upon seeing his old friend. ‘Come, come, have a seat. Have you read today’s news? The Japanese are only six miles ...’
‘Huh! Leave the news. Life’s too hard to keep up with the world. Have you had tea?’
‘Not yet. Sit, sit; I’ll order.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with your stove?’
'The pin’s missing. Damn thing’s been acting up since yesterday. Arrey, Madhu ...’
Madhu, the dispensary’s sole helper, brought over two cups of tea from the shop next door. They drank as they always did, topping up the cups with whatever was left in the kettle. As they sipped, their conversation turned, as it often did, to travel.
They dreamed of journeys. Where to go? When to go? How much would it cost? They both loved the idea of travelling, but family responsibilities, financial struggles, and the grind of daily life had kept them chained to the city. The farthest Doctor Shambhu had ever gone was his aunt’s house in Mogra. Gopikrishna Babu had ventured a little further—to Bardhaman. That was it. Their grand travels, their adventures, their explorations—nothing but unfulfilled plans.
Every year, before the Durga Puja holidays, they planned. ‘This time, we must go somewhere!’
‘How much would it cost?’
‘If we can manage forty rupees, we can visit Kashi ...’
And so, the debate would begin—Kashi or Gaya? Or Santal Pargana? The discussion would last for hours, only to be restarted the next evening.
‘What about Bhagalpur?’
‘Are there hills in Bhagalpur?’
Neither of them knew for sure.
The days would pass, and Puja would arrive. In the month preceding Puja, they would talk about places near and far—places like Peshawar, Kashmir, Delhi, Jaipur, Vrindavan, Shillong, and even Nalhati in the Birbhum district. But just as every year before, something would get in the way. Doctor Shambhu’s landlord would threaten eviction over unpaid rent. Gopikrishna’s youngest son would come down with typhoid. And, invariably, all their travel plans would crumble.
It has been like this for many years. Still, the two travel buffs never gave up. From the end of the monsoon until Puja, they worked out their travel plan. They pored over railway timetables, mapping out routes to places they would never visit. It cost nothing to dream.
That evening, sipping tea, Gopikrishna said, ‘Only a month to Puja. This time, we must go. Let’s finalize everything now. What do you say? Do you have the railway timetable?’
Of course, the timetable was always handy—on the table of those who never travelled. Doctor Shambhu put on his glasses and flipped through the pages.
‘I hear Chitrakoot is beautiful. Know anything about it?’
A case of the blind leading the blind. ‘Oh, yes! A stunning place!’ Gopakrishna Babu said.
‘What’s the fare? Don’t say no this time. Let’s go to Chitrakoot!’
Gopikrishna Babu could have easily told Doctor Shambhu that his agreement was the least of their obstacles but he restrained himself. Instead, they consulted the timetable and found the fare.
‘Add twenty rupees more,’ said Doctor Shambhu, ‘for lodging and boarding, cigarette and paan. It’s war time, after all.’
‘Yes, that’s true!’
‘Whatever happens, we must go this time. Let’s start making arrangements. Puja is just around the corner.’
For hours, they planned. They worked out the logistics in great detail. They decided to carry food from home—everything was so expensive. They needed a hold-all bedding each. Doctor Shambhu added a few more things, ‘Mosquito nets, pillows ...’
‘Uh-uh!’ Gopikrishna Babu interrupted impatiently.
‘Don’t just rattle things off. We must write them down and finalize everything right away. Yes, mosquito nets, pillows, what else? Blankets ...’
‘Blankets?’
‘Yes, thin, lightweight blankets!’
Suddenly, a man called from the pavement outside. ‘Is this a doctor’s clinic?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Doctor Shambhu stopped writing and stood up at once. ‘What do you need?’
‘Homeopathic?’ the man asked.
‘Yes, homeopathic—but who’s ill?’
‘No one; I was just asking,’ the man said and walked on.
Shambhu came back to the list.
‘Look at this man—wasting our time unnecessarily!’ he muttered as he picked up his fountain pen again. ‘Now, where were we? A thin blanket and ...?’
By ten at night, the two friends called it a day, deciding to continue their discussions the next evening.
Gopikrishna Babu reached home, had his dinner and went to bed. But the excitement of the trip kept him awake. How far is Chitrakoot? Perhaps we’ll travel through forests and mountains ... a long train journey—how thrilling! Oh, yes! He must carry a carton of good cigarettes. Expensive ones, perhaps. Money was being spent on so many other things anyway. Travelling is one of life’s greatest pleasures. They would get to see the high mountains. He had never seen mountains in his life. How many days till Puja? Gopikrishna Babu got up and checked the calendar—only twenty-six more days! He would have to start arranging for the money immediately.
Gopikrishna Babu’s in-laws lived in Kolaghat. His wife’s brother had joined the military and was stationed in Kanpur. A couple of days ago, his wife had received a letter saying that her brother would be coming home on vacation. Since then, she had been pestering Gopikrishna Babu to visit. ‘How about going to Kolaghat during the Puja? That way, we can meet my brother too!’ she suggested time and again.
Gopikrishna Babu was irritated. ‘Yes, yes. Why not? As if I have all the time in the world to visit your prehistoric village and meet that country-bumpkin brother of yours!’
His wife flared up. ‘Let him be an illiterate country bumpkin, but my brother is still better off than you and that quack friend of yours who sells water in the name of homeopathy. At least my brother earns a hundred and fifty rupees. And you? Even with a BA degree, you’ve been stuck at fifty forever! You couldn’t even take me to Belur, just the two of us! My brother is far better than you and your friend,’ she snapped.
Gopikrishna Babu thought it best to turn to the other side and shut his eyes. There was no point in arguing with her.
On his way back from work the next day, Gopikrishna Babu visited his friend again. Over tea, they resumed their serious discussion about the impending trip.
How much money should they carry was an important point of discussion. Doctor Shambhu said, ‘Ashu Sanyal came after you left yesterday. He mentioned that there’s a station called Nimiaghat on the way. If we break our journey there, we can climb up to Mount Pareshnath. Should we do that? That way, we can visit two places in one trip.’
‘Pareshnath?’
‘Yes. The highest peak in the Bengal plains—it’s worth seeing!’
‘Great idea! We could do it.’
‘First, let’s figure out the money part—travel expenses, for instance. And food.’
‘Some shopping?’
‘There’s no limit to how much one can shop—you could even buy an elephant if you wanted! Leave shopping aside for now. Let’s focus on the essential expenses first.’
And so the evening passed. The next evening, the discussion turned to luggage. Whether they should carry mosquito nets or not. They couldn’t come to a resolution in just one evening. Doctor Shambhu said, ‘It’s always wise to carry a mosquito net. Mosquitoes cause malaria, filaria and a host of other diseases. A net is an essential part of the luggage.’ But Gopikrishna Babu disagreed. ‘There wouldn’t be any mosquitoes in the hilly western part of Bengal. It’s not a muggy swamp like the rest of Bengal. Why lug around unnecessary weight?’
At ten that night, they put the argument to rest and went home.
The next day, they met again. That day’s discussion revolved around food—what should they carry? Both agreed that homemade luchi or paratha with potato curry would be the best option for the train journey. Outside food would be too expensive; even one rupee’s worth wouldn’t be enough to fill their stomachs. Then came the debate—should they take luchi or paratha? Ultimately, they decided there was no need to carry the potato curry—potatoes were too expensive. Instead, they could take pumpkin curry or taro-root mishmash, both equally delicious and a perfect accompaniment to either paratha or luchi.
A few more days passed this way. The Puja holidays were drawing closer. Gopikrishna’s Babu’s excitement grew with each passing day. He reminded his wife, ‘Make sure you pack everything carefully. Don’t forget to darn the mosquito net ... and to pack the bell-pot as well ...’
Gopikrishna Babu was summoned to his boss’ cabin. ‘I thought it best to inform you now. Your name is not on the list of employees receiving the Puja bonus this year.’
‘But why not, Sir?’
‘Last year, you and a few others received the bonus. This year, we’re giving it to those who were left out—to keep things fair.’
‘But, Sir, that’s not fair. Last year, we received the bonus because you were satisfied with our performance. So, what was wrong with our performance this year?’
But, as was common in most Bengali offices, the boss’s word was final. No amount of argument made a difference. While others received one-and-a-half months’ salary as a bonus, Gopikrishna Babu got only his regular month’s pay. That very day, he applied for an advance but was granted only fifteen rupees. Even that didn’t stay with him for long. A letter arrived from his ancestral village. His old aunt had written that the property tax hadn’t been paid for quite some time. The tax collectors were now threatening to foreclose their ancestral home and put it up for auction. He must immediately send eight rupees and thirteen annas to clear the dues for six quarters. Gopikrishna Babu fumed with anger. Let it be foreclosed. Why should he care? The house was already in ruins—old, crumbling, overrun with weeds and mosquitoes. If his aunt could enjoy the fruits from the mango and jackfruit trees surrounding the house, why couldn’t she pay the taxes? Why should he be the one to bear this extra burden? Why should he pay. He didn’t even live there!
His wife tried to calm him down, saying, ‘There’s no point in being angry. After all, when the old woman passes away, our two sons will inherit the property. Naturally, we can’t expect her to be solely responsible for paying the taxes.’
That evening, Gopikrishna Babu walked into Doctor Shambhu’s dispensary, looking rather glum. Doctor Shambhu seemed to be in a similar mood. Tea was ordered. Both friends sipped their tea in silence, neither mentioning their trip. At last, Gopikrishna Babu gathered the courage to ask, ‘So, any other thoughts on the trip?’
Doctor Shambhu sighed. ‘Brother, whatever money I earned this month has all been spent in buying clothes for the family. I never imagined clothes would be so expensive. Just to get each of them a set, I had to spend forty-three rupees! I don’t have any money left now. But there are still five more days ... Maybe, by the grace of God, a complicated and expensive case will turn up ...’
Gopikrishna Babu explained his situation next. He, too, hoped that something would change in the next five days, though deep down, he knew there was no real chance of getting extra money—he wasn’t about to win a lottery, after all!‘
Well, even if we can’t afford to go to Chitrakoot ...’
‘There’s another place in the timetable that’s closer than Chitrakoot—Rishyashringa’s ashram, six miles from Kajra station. It says that the scenic beauty there is breathtaking ...’
‘My sister-in-law was saying that if we get down at the Nimiaghat station on the Grand Chord line, we can go to Pareshnath from there. Should we do that? It will be less expensive.’
That evening, too, the discussion dragged on until about ten at night. Should they go to Rishyashringa ashram or Pareshnath? Which one would be less expensive? After a lot of back and forth, and calculations from the timetable, they found that both destinations would cost around twenty-five to thirty rupees per person at the very least.
‘We will manage it somehow,’ Doctor Shambhu said reassuringly.
But surprisingly, there was a sudden decline in both the number of diseases and patients in Calcutta. Previously Doctor Shambhu would earn at least two rupees a day, but now even selling a five-anna dose of Nux Vomica was proving difficult. Not only were there no patients to visit, but even the medicines remained unsold. And, as if things weren’t already bad enough, a cousin of Doctor Shambhu and his wife landed at his doorstep. Life in the village had become tough, his cousin explained, so he had decided to try his luck in Calcutta. After all, Doctor Shambhu was a well-known doctor in a big city—surely, he wouldn’t let his own cousin go hungry.
Gopikrishna Babu, too, going through a tough time. His niece and her husband arrived at their house, bringing along a pair of hilsa that cost five rupees.
Gopikrishna Babu’s wife nudged him and whispered, ‘Don’t forget to pay your son-in-law for the fish before they leave.’
‘Why should I pay?’ Gopikrishna Babu snapped.
‘Did I ask him to buy such an expensive fish? Were we starving without it?’
‘Shhh ... Don’t talk like that,’ his wife tried to hush him. ‘He is our son-in-law. We must pay him back. And besides, we all ate the fish—he didn’t finish it alone!’
‘So what? We manage just fine with a quarter kilo of khoira for six annas. What’s the point of spending five rupees on fish?’
Such matters couldn’t be resolved through arguments. As the guests were leaving, Gopikrishna Babu reluctantly had to stuff a five-rupee note into his son-in-law’s pocket. He had saved eight rupees but five of them were now spent unnecessarily on the fish.
The two friends were sitting in Doctor Shambhu’s dispensary, chatting. They came to the conclusion that there was no point in planning their trip anymore. They resigned themselves to the fact that they wouldn’t be able to go on a trip this year either. Instead, they started discussing more mundane things. The next day was the first day of Puja.
Suddenly, Gopikrishna Babu shifted a little in his chair and pulled out a colourful card from his pocket. ‘Mmm—what I was saying was ...’ he began hesitantly, ‘A friend from the office, Banku Sarkar, handed me this card when I was leaving after work. In his ancestral village, Langalpota, there will be Puja. This is an invitation for that. They will have Ramayan singing and Chandi chants for two nights. Want to go? It’s not far at all. Just two miles from Barasat station. We’ll get to travel ‘outside’ the city during the Puja holidays and he says it’s a beautiful place. He told me that the young boys of the village got together to make roads, build ghats and clear the weeds and overgrown bushes surrounding the village. There’s also a very old Shiva temple there. Should we go? We can meet at the station early tomorrow morning. The Dattapur local train leaves from Sealdah at seven. We can catch it easily. I’m telling you; it will be a trip worth taking!’
‘Yes, yes! It will be an excellent trip. Let’s go!’ Doctor Shambhu was now bursting with excitement. ‘I will be there at the station, right on time.’
The two friends spent the next three days in much joy. Langalpota was indeed a beautiful village, with many places for sightseeing. The ancient Shiva temple, the large pond of Zamindar Chowdhury, the road built by the young boys of the village using red river sand and the Saturday and Sunday village haat with a variety of vegetables—the freshest brinjals, pumpkins, gourds, sweet potatoes and more. On the third day of Puja, there was Ramayan singing. The next day, there was a theatre performance depicting Lord Krishna’s stories. The food was excellent, too. Their host, Banku Sarkar, was extremely hospitable and took good care of them.
And Gopikrishna Babu and Doctor Shambu had a whale of a time on their holiday trip.
Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay (1894–1950) was a Bengali novelist and short story writer. His best known works are the autobiographical novel Pather Panchali (Song of the Road), Aparajito (Undefeated), Chander Pahar (Mountain of the Moon) and Aranyak (Of the Forest).
Aniruddha Mukherjee is passionate about all things art. An extremely talented artist from Delhi College of Art, his works have won many awards, including the Sahitya Kala Parishad Award and the AIFACS Drawing Annual. He has illustrated many books for children. Aniruddha also translates from Bengali and Hindi into English. Some of his translated works include Once There Was a King and Other Stories by Rabindranath Tagore (co-translated with Mamta Nainy from the Bengali and published by Mango Books), Otter the Great by Gaganindranath Tagore (co-translated with Mamta Nainy from the Bengali and published by Mango Books), Kumhar Basti ki Bailgadi by Rabindranath Tagore (translated from the Bengali and published by Katha Books), Megh Aur Tarang by Rabindranath Tagore (translated from the Bengali and published by Katha Books) and Chhota-Bada by Rabindranath Tagore (translated from the Bengali and published by Katha Books).
Mamta Nainy is a writer based in New Delhi. She has authored over thirty-five books for children, many of which have gone on to win national and international awards and recognition, including Valley of Words Awards 2022, FICCI Publishing Awards 2022, Publishing Next Award 2022, The Hindu Young World-Goodbooks Award 2019 and Peek-a-Book Children’s Choice Award 2019. Her books have also featured on the USBBY and IBBY lists. She also works as a literary translator, translating in both directions, from Hindi into English and vice versa, with over forty published works of translation. She is inspired by the unfettered imagination of children and loves travelling but is too lazy to do it, so she mostly makes do with reading.