Requiem for Bejoygarh

For the past several years I have kept this piece of paper, though I don't know why. This crumpled, yellowing piece of paper, which flew into my life on a strange evening. For some reason, I remember every detail of that evening very clearly. It was late April, the season of nor'westers, and those who have seen a nor'wester storm in Calcutta will know how calm and beautiful it gets just before the storm. That evening the sky was darkening at a rapid pace. There was a strange coolness in the air. All the trees stood still, waiting for the storm to come and make them go wild. I walked out of my house to quickly grab some phuchkas, yet another Calcutta speciality, a savoury snack made from flour, and gulped down with a spicy mix of mashed potato and tamarind juice.

The phuchka seller has a stand just across the road from my house. I reached him and ordered my phuchkas. A gust of wind announced the storm, and nearly blew the first phuchka out of my hand. The seller rushed to pack up and run for shelter, and I suddenly felt my face getting covered with something. As I took it away from my face, I saw a piece of paper, the kind used by the phuchka seller to wrap his wares. I was about to crumple it up and throw it away, when something caught my eye. The Nation of Bejoygarh, it read. By now, the storm had grown stronger; it had started drizzling and the trees were beginning to sway. The seller had run away without waiting for my money for that one phuchka, which in any case had also gotten blown away. I put the paper in my pocket and ran back home.