I was just 4 years old when she was born. When I saw her for the first time, her tiny ,pudgy fingers wrapped around my index finger when I poked it in her soft pink cheek.

Kakimaa and Kakababu had taken me under their wing when my mother died when I was three and Kakimaa didn't have any child of her own. They waited so many years before she was born, for their child.

She was such a spoiled kid. If she wants something, she will get it no matter what or she won't have the food. And still nobody thought to treat her otherwise. She was the apple of her mother's eye. Her father's strict demeanor used to melt in seconds when she sat in his lap.

And I… .I was her best friend, her companion, her crime partner. Partner in everything we did. But not in matters of punishment. I remember , once she broke her mother's traditional Sitahar while playing with it , playing the part of queen. But I had taken the brunt of stick welts that day for her.

The welts didn't hurt as much as her tears did, falling on my palm, the saltiness burning the wound more, as she applied turmeric paste on it.

That day I realised how precious her tears were to me. I don't know whether I should be bothered at the sight of her tears, or feel delight that they were for me. The reason being ,it was a rare sight to see her cry.

Whether she falls on the ground while running or gets scolded for her mischievousness ,she was never the one to cry. She would always stand up , smoothening her rumpled clothes and brushing away her scratched hands, and give a toothy laugh.

"Devaaa! Ale ooooo devaaaaa!" A three year old Kala came , shouting my name in her lisping voice. How many times Kakima had scolded her for calling me Deva and not Deb Da but she won't listen. Stubborn, she was. She came running to me and instinctively I lifted her in my arms and my forearm supported her weight.

She grabbed my cheeks in her soft pudgy hands and tried to part my lips, making me laugh. " Kya khaale ho? Dithao …dithao…. " She peeked in my mouth and shrieked in surprise, "Hawwwww  imm-eeeeeeeee(tamarind)  mele bina!!! "

"Kala, small kids don't eat im-ee. Your teeth would get sour." 

" Aul tumhala daant? Wo khata ni hoyega? Par tumhala ek daant gya kaha? " She pointed at a  gap where a canine of mine used to be to which I had recently said farewell .

" It broke down."

" Im-eee khane se." Her eyes widened in horror.

" Yes. Yours will also break if you will." I tried to scare her.

" Ami jani na, Ami khete chai."

" Amra dui jon ekdom ek rokom? "

She nodded eagerly bobbing her head and gave me a wide grin.

And here I was standing on the branch of the tamarind tree in our garden, breaking pods of tamarind for her , and she was giving me directions on which one she wanted to eat.

When we finally sat with our share of pods of tamarind , she ran into the house , to my surprise and came back with a handful of salt and chilly powder mixed in her small hand, half of which she had dropped on the way.

"Isse khate . Khata nahi lagega."

I already had enough tamarind today and when I bit the next pod , my teeth suddenly pickled and so did my brain.

I knew I wouldn't be eating my meals today without wincing but the sight of her clenched eyes , her scrunched little nose and her puckered lips , sweetened the sourness of the extremely sour pods and I bit another one again.

Sourness she loved and the sore loser she was .

I have never seen a sore loser like her. No matter what the game is, she wouldn't leave the rounds, unless she is the last one to win. The 'chausar' game cloth would be thrown upon the ground if she is not the one winning. The board of chess would be flipped if she felt I trapped her from all sides and there was no chance of winning now, now matter how much she cheated or tried to distract my sight from the board.

The one who cheats thinks everyone else is cheating too.

"Cheating! Cheating ! Cheating! I don't know how but you did something between thirteenth and fourteenth 'chaal' . Or I would be the one winning."

The running races would be paused in between to see her scraped knees and false pretense of getting hurt , only to be outdone by her.

But the proud smile she used to give after winning , albeit by cheating , was a treat to my eyes after losing. And I would lose hundred times to see her smile like that.

I remembered, while swimming in the river behind her house, we bet to keep our breaths on hold, underwater for a minute.

To trick her, I didn't come out for a few minutes unless she started crying in high pitch and called out my name begging to never trouble me if I came out. I came out finally from under the water only to meet her fists on my cheeks, and her hot angry tears.

I still remember she didn't talk to me for the whole day. Nothing pained me more than her silence, I realised.

It was only after two bowls of roshmalai , that too of her favourite sweet shop, that she finally gave me her forgiveness before taking the promise that I would never scare her like that.

Slowly, slowly when we grew and entered the phase of pubescence, my feelings for her started changing. She became more than a friend to me. My day started with her laughter and ended with her endless talks.

She had long left the dolls and 'house' games in which I was always dragged  to my utter embarrassment, and made romantic novels her best friend.

She had eaten my head off to teach her how to read and write as Kakababu was against her going to school. The curiosity to know what all went outside the premises of her playground, encouraged her to learn faster.

Sometimes I used to get irritated by the amount of attention her stupid novels would get even when I was sitting in front of her.

One more thing that fascinated her more than novels was her reflection. Everyone knew she was beautiful from the start , but as if she just realised the fact, she would keep gazing herself in the mirror, getting conscious about her looks and weight, no matter how much everyone told otherwise.

She had stopped playing in mud, in intense sunlight for the fear of getting dark-sinned, and gave up her favourite sweets until she could not avoid them anymore . What all she wouldn't do to rub her skin to make it more smoother, and shinier. Every herb, every home remedy and she would happily become the lab rat for its testing.

The only thing she was poor at was painting.
"Kala! Your name is kala, but you don't have an iota of art in you." I laughed at her to be immediately pelted upon by her soft fists and her crayons or whatever that came in her hand, and I  would hide my face with my forearms in futile attempts to protect myself from her wrath.

I had now stopped living on the allowances Kaka Babu used to give me. He had work in agriculture, but wanted me to do some office work in city. To be honest , I was interested in none.

My heart was engrossed in pen and paper. In wordplay. I had heard a quote long back that 'pen is mightier than sword' and to test this quote in practical terms, I started writing to provoke the need for revolution if we wanted to free India once and for all. My compositions were mainly based on the need for different measures to bend the backbone of the British Government. The unsaid conflict between non -violence and violent methods was slowing down the process somehow. People were sceptical which method they should follow.

All my writings went for proof reading to her , except for those which I had written for her. Because I knew none can completely make those writings perfect. There was nothing that could perfectly describe her. They were just a catharsis for the intense and overflowing emotions in my heart for her , which I was too timid for her to acknowledge.

There was one special thing that kept us bonded the strongest and that was our love for poems. For hours , we would lie on grass and listen to each other's compositions. Hers were mostly about her desire to explore the world outside, to see mountains ,seashore , deserts as she felt too sheltered and oblivious to the world in her home. About her desires to break away the differences of man and woman.

She didn't know much about what went on in other homes where women were oppressed to the level of toxicity. But how much can you hide smell, sunlight, love and injustice? And the numerous books she read would give her an insight too. She wanted to fight for them, to bring some changes.

What all she had not done to convince her baba to send her to school? Cried, cajoled, threw tantrums, and when finally she fell on bed, starving without food and water for the whole one and a half day, his father gave in, much to his reluctance.

The only relief for him being, she would soon be married and her in -laws would not let her go to school. But to his utter dismay, her kundali said that she was maanglik (as if Mars didn't have anything else to do other than trying to kill spouses of those who didn't have it in desired positions)  , and she was denied all alliances. No amount of dowry or bribery could bring back the eligible boys back, for what use is the money without life.

I still remember how much we had laughed , doubling on our bellies ,when her mother forcefully got her married to a banana tree, much to her irritation, and the next day the heavy thunderstorm pulled it out of its soil.

She had laughed more when I had called her 'Petni' and what all evil magics she possessed to which she pulled her hair on her face and swayed left and right moving her fingers in hocus pocus murmuring mystic gibberish and let out scary-cum-cute laughs.

Once I went to Calcutta for some work , and she was annoyed because I didn't take her with me. As if her father would allow her to go with me. Nothing could cool her rage and tantrum until I pulled out a black dupatta studded with small mirrors of different shapes held onto the cloth by different coloured threads, which I had brought from a Rajasthani merchant in a fair.

Her eyes shone in delight and her lips parted in a circle , when she took it in sight. That day her eyes were so talkative, I kept losing the grip of her conversation in between her talks, several times.

Uske hoth agar sau baate karte hain, toh uski aankhein hazzaar ,
Samajh ni aata unhe kaano se sunu, yaa aankho se padhu.

The only thing I remember from that conversation is that it reminded her of a starry night sky.

Then came the day of severance, when the purity of our friendship impinged like sand in the eyes of the dirty -minded society. Her not getting married worked like a fuel in the rumours of our so-called illegitimate relationship, and her father finally asked me to repay what all he had done for me,  by going away from her life.

She had cried buckets and accused me that day , of breaking my promise of becoming great writers together and write a book in partnership that would be the best-seller, when I left for Deenpur to work as a columnist. I had thought nothing could hurt me more than her tears but I was wrong.

After two years of separation when our meetings were limited to only letters, finally I had come again to meet her. And the weirdest thing was Kakababu had himself called me. He sounded a bit off but he didn't accept when I pointed out , rather said that he was waiting for my arrival. He wanted to say something important to me and about Kala too. I just hoped it wasn't bad news this time. What else could he say about us?

A stupid, no…...very very stupid part of me was hoping for the impossible. Hoping that he would talk about 'us". But I didn't want to raise my hopes only for them to shatter when I go there. But I couldn't help but bounce on my heels.

How would she be looking after two years? Her height must have increased for sure. Does she still get annoyed when she loses the games? Would she love the gift I've bought for her? Even if the things don't go as per the small hope in my heart, I would give her this. I caressed her gift in my hand.

Either my first gift as a lover or my parting gift as her friend. Both would be fine. Okay, who am I fooling? Former one would be the biggest happiness of my life.

After six torturous hours of my life, when I reached her house, I felt a strange, painful tug at my heart. Maybe it was the anxiousness to meet her after so long.

I brushed it off and my eyes widened when I saw Romil kaka, their driver on the ground, his throat slit open pouring out blood and his eyes closed.

***
Present

Debashish took out a  letter from his wallet and matched the lines written below the mountainous scenery drawn on it, which looked as if made by a two -year old with absolutely no artistic talent, from the last letter he recieved from her.

Pahaado me ek sham ho,
tum ho,
Ho ek kitab kavitaao se bhari hui,
Ek maidan ho ghaas ka,
Fool usme lehlahaate hue,
Beech me lete hum,
Us kitaab se kavitaayein ek dusre ko sunate hue.
(Disclaimer --this one is not my creation)

***

"Batuk! What are you doing? Leave it Batuk. Don't lose your sense, Batuk. If you will hurt yourself, how will we… " Subhalaxmi swayed as her head throbbed. Batakrishna held her and prevented her from falling and made her sit on the sofa.

"Subha! Subha! Are you okay? I'll … . I'll take you to the hospital okay. From there you would inform Dada  from the hospital telephone, okay. He would have the spare keys. He would come here and might pick your phone." She nodded.

" Debu! Did anyone say something?" Batakrishna's voice brought him back from the sweet-sour memories of his past and he looked at him. His blood smeared cheek, his eyes reddened and swollen with extreme crying, and his face laced with extreme worry for her.

Her?

Her?

She is alive?

"Ba-batuk! The woman you… .you were talking about…who was kidnapped….what what was her nay-name? Was it your boudi? " Debashish's voice choked as he asked him. He was confused whether to be happy on learning she was alive or afraid that if she was, then whether he lost her again.

Batakrishna contemplated his answer for a nanosecond , forgetting the reason for hiding her identity in the first place and said, " Not Boudi.  Sh-shetu….. I… I mean Shetukala."

Debashish collapsed on the ground owing to the jelly his legs had turned.

"Debu!!! What! What happened? Are you okay?" Batakrishna held him by his shoulder and shook him.

"Sh-sh-shetukala?" He nodded. "Who were they? Where is she? "

Batakrishna frowned at these questions and shook his head. "I don't know, I… .she… I don't know where she is. I just got this slip on the floor."

Debashish took the slip and the color drained from his face as he read the words 'HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF'. His hands shivered and he clutched the other paper in his hand and showed it to Batakrishna.

"This… .. this… ."

Batakrishna took the paper and saw a small verse written in Shetukala's handwriting. His eyes welled and he kissed the words and hugged the paper to his chest. "This… … this … .is her writing. " He noticed it was the page of the same diary he gave her, and big fat tears rolled from his eyes on his cheeks.

"What … What does this note mean?" Debashish asked  fearing to anticipate the worst.  "Ba-batuk! This can't be right? This can't be!!! "

" What are you saying, debu? What happened to you? " Batakrishna was surprised as he saw Debashish's eyes pouring streams of tears flushing his cheeks. Why would Debasish of all people who was the most practical person he met , would cry tears for a stranger.

Debashish wiped his tears harshly. " Wait , wait!" He picked up his wallet from the floor and showed a picture to him. " Does she look like this?"

Batakrishna took the picture in his hand. It was a picture of a younger Shetukala, maybe 5-6 years back but he could make out her features but what astounded him most was her wide smile, showing her full set of teeth, reaching her eyes which were shining in delight. She was wearing a black mirror studded dupatta. He doesn't remember her smiling like this since he met her. There was always a hint of sadness in her smile which didn't let it reach her eyes.

"How did you have this? What did you do to her?"
He grabbed Debashish's collar in rage and brought his face near to his. " Answer me or I know how to take it out of your throat. "

Debashish coughed and freed himself from him. " Batuk! What are you saying? I have known her since childhood. I'm her childhood friend."

" Whatt? " Batakrishna's head was spinning with all the shocking news that was bursting on him one after another. " How…  I mean… .why didn't you tell before?"

"How am I supposed to know who you are talking about? You never took her name. And I thought she … .she was … .dead."  He closed his eyes in exasperation.

" Whatt?" He looked at him incredulously.

" We'll talk about all this later. First we have to find her."

"Yes, but where?"

He though for a few seconds and then as if a bulb lit in his brain he said,  "I think , where the history took place."

" Her … her house?" Debashish nodded.

"Her house. Chandan Nagar."

Does anyone remember in 'sapno ki duniya ' chapter, Shetukala kept remembering a person when she was in trouble. Now you know who he is.

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