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Kajori
    A   S T O R Y
    By Sramana Mitra
     
     
    1955, PURI. Five boys, scattered across the long second floor verandah, played Piggy-In-The- Middle. Each barefoot in shorts, their torsos dark chocolate from sun. Sweat glistened their skin as they pursued each other, darting in and out of the pillars.
    The vacation house of Debendra Narayan Basu chattered with the entire Basu family, along with the family of his friend Surjo Shankar Ray.
                  The shrieks rose to a climactic scream as Ajoy jumped and caught the ball.              The other boys collapsed on the floor.             
    “I’m going for a swim.”
                  “Me too,” chimed the other four, though none moved from where they lay.
                  A servant, Ramapada, in only a white loin-cloth, brought them a basket of shingara and jilipi. Another brought a bunch of green coconuts and a large half-moon katari knife.
                  The parched puffing boys waited for him to chop off the head of a coconut.
                  Ajoy walked over to the other side of the verandah and held up a coconut to his older sister, Kajori.
    Surjo Shankar’s grand daughter, Kajori and Debendra Narayen’s grandson Shekhar sat on the floor surrounded by five younger boys and girls. They discussed a play the family was rehearsing, to be staged at the end of their vacation.
                  “Maloti needs to be very soft, understand Abha?” asked Shekhar.
                  “Dada, will you stop? Maloti has one line to deliver!” complained Abha, turning her attention to the coconut. She taunted the lines to spite her brother. “ Agun jalai kano dibe nashi …?”
    “Yes, but understand,” intervened Kajori, “the queen is about to burn down an entire village for her momentary pleasure. You are the only person who questions her!”
                  Shekhar laughed. “Kindness isn’t her strength!”
                  Kajori smiled, whispered into Shekhar’s ears.
                  “What?” queried Abha. “You two and your secrets!”
                  “You want to be the queen, not the maid, right?” asked Kajori.             
    “She can’t be the queen,” cut in Shekhar.
    “Of course not Dada! We know who’s fit to be your queen.” Abha retorted, looking at Kajori, and walked off, further taunting her lines.
    On another corner of the verandah, a group of six women sat cross-legged on bamboo mats, watching Kajori and Shekhar’s easy camaraderie. They were childhood friends, confidantes, accomplices.
                  Abha grabbed a jilipi from her mother’s plate and walked away.
                  “I couldn’t keep match-makers away in Kolkata. Now, they followed me here,” complained Shekhar’s mother, Radharani, wiping the sweat on her forehead with her sari.
                  “What does Shekhar have to say about all this?”
                  “I don’t understand Shekhar these days. Doesn’t want to talk about marriage … looking after Baba’s textile mill. Even makes his own money. Doesn’t like the work, it’s boring. But ...” Radharani put a piece of batter fried potato in her mouth.
                  “May be, he’s in love with someone!” conjectured Sudha, laughing.
                  “Have some sweets . ” Radharani held out a plate.
                  “And Kajori’s wedding, Damayanti?” asked Sudha. “Ambitious girl. I worry about her.”
                  “Kajori will go to college,” responded Kajori’s mother, Damayanti.
                 
    A few yards from the gates of the house, the magnificent waves of the Bay of Bengal lashed on the sand. The boys ran past Kajori and Shekhar and splashed into the water. A group of jet black Nuliya boys stood waste