PART FOUR

Early next morning, Bangshalochan sent Chukandar to find out if there were any bhala aadmis in the neighborhood who would keep a goat as a pet. He would not give the goat to just about anyone. Someone who would bring him up with care, not sell him for money, not eat him for mutton.

It is eight o clock. Bangshalochan is sitting on a chair in the outside verandah, the barber is shaving him; Binodbabu and Nagen are reading about Dalhousie versus Mohun Bagan in the Amrita Bazar; Uday is haggling over mangoes, when Chukandar announces with a selam, “Latubabu aaye hain.”

Latubabu came up to the verandah with three comrades and a nomoshkar. The men were all more or less identically attired – the hair at the nape of the neck shaved, a mountainous bouffant on top, and two clumps of hair near the temples on either side with their hoods raised like cobras. Wristwatch on the wrist; translucent panjabi with extra-long sleeves, through which one could spot the glow of pink vests. Lapetas curled on their feet; a half-burnt cigarette was tucked behind the ear.

Bangshalochan asked, “Where would you gentlemen be coming from?”

Latubabu said, “We are the Beleghata Kerasele Band. Myself – bandmaster – Latabar Laldi – people call me Latubabu. We heard you were giving a goat away, so we came to find out for certain.”