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Obsessed with teaching science in Bengali.” He took two books out of his bag, arranged them on the table. “Worked with Einstein, but doesn’t understand why Science should be taught in English!”
                  “Did he really work with Einstein?” asked Kajori, pushing the plate in front of him.
                  “Of course. In Berlin. Imagine, Bose and Einstein talking in Bengali!”
                  Mashtarmoshai laughed out aloud. Kajori smiled.
    “Did you have a class at Presidency?”
    “Yes.” He opened his notebook and sat down. “I hope you will join soon. Dr. Bose is planning to retire next year. May be, Dr. Saha too. Who knows what will happen.” Mashtarmoshai pondered aloud with a frown. “But, if I have anything to do with this, you will take their place.”
                  Kajori lowered her eyes.
                  “But first, you will go to Oxford. Then Princeton.”
    “Why Princeton?”
    “Oh, you can go to MIT if you prefer!” He smiled, adding softly, “Then come back here and teach.” Eating his Sandesh , he continued, “… Princeton because Einstein has trained so many people there for 20 years. You will find good guidance.”
    Kajori opened her Physics book, but looked up. “Mashtarmoshai, does a free Electron have finite mass?”
    He looked at her gently. “ The quantum theory of radiation predicted that a free electron should have an infinite mass.I will bring you Dr. Lamb’s Nobel lecture next week … ”
    The first time Mashtarmoshai took Kajori to his Presidency College laboratory, she was twelve. He gave her a specific gravity bottle which she broke. He took her to the hospital, got her hand stitched, then returned to the lab and showed her how to measure the specific gravity of water.
    Kajori had worked in his laboratory ever since. He answered her ever-active questioning, resolved her dilemmas, argued with her. Most importantly, he asked new questions of her. The uncut diamond of Kajori’s mind was thus polished for years. There was hardly any aggression in her personality. Only precision.
    Darwan interrupted Mashtarmoshai’s story. “Didimoni, Kartababu is back from Hazaribagh. He wants to see you.”
                  Mashtarmoshai sighed. “They’re trying to marry you off, Kajori.”
                  Kajori, leaving, turned and declared, “Mashtarmoshai, I’ll go to Oxford. Marriage or not!”
                 
    Outside, in the portico, two servants unloaded baskets from the car. Her grandfather had brought them back from his fishing trip. The carps were large and dead, with blank round open eyes and silver scales. The two servants salivated.
    As she walked up to him, Surjo Shankar held his arms out to his grand daughter and drew her up the staircase.
                  “I did something …,” he looked at her uncertainly.
                  “And what is that, Dadu?”
                  “I didn’t ask you first.”
                  “You always ask for my permission on everything, Dadu!” Kajori laughed.
                  “I didn’t ask your father either.”
                  “Dadu.” Kajori stopped. “Enough suspense!”
                  “I promised Deben I’d marry you to Shekhar …”
    “ Dadu!” She was stunned.
                  Kajori refused to turn around and look at Mashtarmoshai, who had come out to the foyer. He watched horrified from the bottom of the staircase.
                 
     
    KAJORI AND SHEKHAR were married in a grand ceremony celebrating the union of two of Kolkata’s oldest families.
    An exquisite veiled Kajori in a red Benarasi sari sat on a four-poster bed sprinkled with rose petals, adorned by fragrant tuberose strings that took the place of the mosquito net, on the night of their phoolshojja .
    On her neck was the famous necklace, a