There was a celebration feast in Ranchi, where his father was a teacher in the city’s best school. A hundred guests were invited because he was the first son. He’s not sure how he knows this. An old photo maybe, or a story, or merely a craving inside, because his grandmother died within the year, and his parents in a train crash when he was five. So much for the luck of red malmal. He was brought to Kolkata to live in the reluctant household of his uncle, where he became Sheno, the name usually coupled with an invective, son-of-a-dog-Sheno, burnt-face-Sheno, brainless-ape-Sheno, haramzada-Sheno, and followed by a clout to the ears. But he survived it, so perhaps there was luck after all, tucked like a stolen rupee note into the waistband of a ragged pajama. More luck came with Bishu, his friend who softened his name to Shonu and saved his life. In college he dived into the danger of Communist politics, became a hero, you might say. Carried a Nepali kukri, bought secondhand in Chora Bazaar—not that he ever used it.
What do You think about Before We Visit The Goddess?
