That day, all rooms were flooded with lights at the Dutta house. After undergoing horrendous situations almost for a year, some fresh air passed through that house. About a year back, the chief of the house, Bhupendra Uncle, had died. He was a Railway employee. He was survived by his wife and two daughters – Bhaswati and Shaswati – and son, Manu. Manu, the youngest, was my friend since kindergarten. After Uncle’s demise, the family was trudging with great difficulties due to paucity of funds. But that day, Railways offered Bhaswatidi a job on compassionate as an office clerk. The income would be meagre but something is always better than nothing. At least Aunty would not have to sell her ornaments or brass utensils any more. It was a well-known fact that when bad times came, all kith and kin disappeared.

I knew Bhaswatidi since many years. She was our neighbour. She had ordinary, Bengali looks with sharp a nose, oval face, dimpled cheeks, a dusky complexion, dark, curly hair and large, inquisitive eyes. Soon, Bhaswatidi started to go to office at nine in the morning and returned at six on the evening. On her way, she found us at Satu’s verandah, gossiping loudly about whether Chuni Goswamy was a better footballer than Balaram or about superstar Uttam Kumar’s roles or the fact that Sukanta was no less than Rabindranath Tagore or if teh world would be a better place had Che Guevara had lived longer. Occasionally, Didi stopped by and scolded us for wasting our time. We would feel a little embarrassed but resume what we were doing immediately as she left.

Probably, economic liberty made a man smarter than what he actually was. Since she started earning, Didi looked prettier in her neatly draped sari and plaited hair. She looked healthier and her face glowed. When Manu was not in the adda, we would discuss that Didi must have fallen in love with someone and wondered what would happen to her mother and young sisters once she was married. But the talks faded away as soon as some other topic would come up. I admired Didi and wanted to have a job like hers.

Years passed by. We graduated from college. But I did not get a job. Life became very difficult for me as my parents kept on ranting and ruing about how I was a useless dunce who could not even get a job. It is true that I was neither meritorious nor studious but that did not mean that I was not trying for a job. I regularly applied for job vacancies that got published in newspapers and had also registered myself in the employment exchange. My mother always screamed at me that till I landed a job I could at least give tuitions and manage my daily expenses and also help my father instead of squandering away my time. I started staying away from my home to escape these daily ranting. I would go there only for food and sleep and stay with my friends at our adda point all the time. My parents thought I was like a rudderless ship and almost gave up on me.

My job applications would get rejected repeatedly and there was no hope in sight to get a job. I lost all confidence in myself and thought that I was a failure. But a beggar could not be a chooser. Thus, even after being humiliated in every sphere of life, I did not give up. One day, Satu enquired as to whether I had applied for a job that was recently published in the dailies. On recall, I gathered that I did not. Discerning that day was the last for applying, I quickly went to Dalhousie Square, bought the form and filled it up. However, a Rs 10 postal order was required with the application form. I did not have such a big amount with me at that time. I stood in front of GPO, puzzled. I did not know anyone who worked in that area who could help me out. On the main road, buses thundered past and rickety trams jostled and jangled their way through the chaos. Almost perplexed, I gave up the hope and started to make passage weaving through milling crowds. Suddenly, I saw Bhaswatidi buying some eatables at a shop. I was hesitant whether to approach or not but Didi saw me. She asked me what I was doing there. After telling her, I asked Didi whether she could spare the amount for postal charges. Didi opened her purse and gave me ten rupees. She left the place without purchasing her snack. I had peeped into her purse and seen that it had just that ten rupee note and no other money. I hurried to the post office counter, purchased the postal order and deposited the application at the nick of time. Luckily, I got that job.

My life changed as money started flowing in. Soon I engrossed in my career. Time passed. I got married and with my son’s birth, became a complete family man. On my way back from work, I would occasionally bump into Didi and exchanged some words in a perfunctory manner. I would see her buying vegetables and other things for her siblings, who were not settled by then. Soon Shaswati got married and I came to know that Didi had arranged for everything by taking a loan from her Provident Fund. When their mother had a had a cardiac failure, Didi was totally shattered. Ultimately, Manu settled and by that time Didi had become old and had started greying. She had never married and was an appendage with Manu’s family. Didi became very reserved and lived in recluse.

Years later, one day when I was teaching my son, my wife told me that Didi had become somewhat maniacal and quarrelsome. She was always muttering alone. She had already retired from her service. With her present behaviour, it was difficult for Manu’s wife to live with Didi under one roof. They would quarrel bitterly every day and often the neighbours had to intervene in order to thaw the situation. Somehow everyone sympathised with Manu’s wife and Didi became very unpopular in the locality. One evening, I was returning from my office with my salary in my pocket. Suddenly, Didi came straight before me and said, “Khokan, can you spare ten rupees? I have to purchase my medicine”. I put my hand in my pocket but could not find the money. It must have fallen somewhere. To avoid Didi’s look, I just looked out for a bus and uncouthly told her that I did not have any cash. I walked away from her hastily. I could not even speak to Didi in the gracious manner expected from a younger brother. A strong feeling nudged me – what if Didi had shown the same attitude to me when I was in need? My life would have been something else then.

With moist eyes praying for mercy for being so ungrateful, I began to sprinkle water on Didi’s funeral pyre at the crematorium. She died after a cardiac failure the very next day after I could not give her money. In the silhouette backdrop, the eastern sky was getting ruddy and streaks of crimson stretched across the pale, blue sky, trying to raise pallid hopes against the morbidity that perhaps Didi had forgiven her recalcitrant and recreant brother.