‘So you would have more of our soldiers dying than a few civilians of theirs.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re a traitor. I hope you know that,’ said Sahil.
The scalpel in my hand slipped and cut through the heart of the poor, furry bastard, Chhotu.
‘No!’ echoed Brahmi, seeing the blood spurt out as if from a little water gun.
‘I think Chhotu is dead,’ said Sahil, chuckling.
The collateral damage of the three of us trying to make the best of our summer vacations was lying dead on the table. Ironic, considering Maa–Baba and I, we were all . . . collateral damage of Dada’s love story.
Coming back to the rat, Brahmi insisted we bury it instead of throwing it away like the unnamed frogs. Sahil played no part in it. We dug a ditch near Shahrazad’s grave.
‘How are you doing?’ asked Brahmi.
‘I have counted seventeen buildings in a three-kilometre radius which are perfect.’
‘So not so good?’
‘Then again Maa–Baba need me right now,’ I said. ‘Also I’m a coward.’
‘I would disagree.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You never told me why your Baba is so against, you know . . . ’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We have time,’ she said.
‘It’s depressing.’
‘We are no strangers to that.’
‘Okay, so where should we start. Umm . . . would it surprise you if I tell you that Baba was not really born an Indian, he’s a Pakistani by birth?’
‘What?’
‘Well, Bangladesh, but it was Pakistan or East Pakistan to be specific in ’54, so yeah,’ I said. ‘I have heard the story in snippets over the years from everyone else but Baba. The adoption of his national identity is a story no one tells in the family. I’m not sure even the little stories I have heard are true or not—’
‘Tell them anyway.’
‘Okay but what’s true is that Baba was the second youngest of three siblings and that he came to India a couple of years before the East Pakistan genocide of 1971.’
‘Was he there?’
‘No but his entire family was. Technically my family too but you get it. So—’
‘So what happened? Did they all die?’
‘You’re a bad listener, aren’t you?’
‘Okay, sorry, go on.’
‘He was sent to study at the Bishop Cotton School in Shimla, away from the madness and the uncertainty in Dhaka. And in the middle of the madness of my grandfather, Shukumar Ganguly. I will show you a picture some day. He’s more handsome than any of the Ganguly men. He was a double doctorate in Bengali and Urdu, and it was for his love for Bengali that he died. East Pakistan was almost all Bengalis so my grandfather, along with others, fought for Bengali to be recognized as an official language.’
