NCERT Textbook: Glory at Twilight | Class 11 English Woven Words - Humanities/Arts PDF Download

 Page 1


Glory at Twilight 85
Glory at Twilight
 Bhabani Bhattacharya
F F F F F Look for these expressions in the story and guess the meaning
from the context
brusquely attuned himself
queer rhythmic frenzy wrenching
flush of prosperity daze of bewilderment
wide-eyed wonder and eager homage
talking animatedly tremulous deliberation
on terms of a perpetual feud
The slow, narrow-gauge Indian train with its awkward freak
of an engine had a way of making unauthorised stops for
no good reason, between fields of corn or at the foot of a
village—it was said that the guard signalled a halt to pluck
a pumpkin or ripe melons from its stem or to buy fistfuls of
green gram from a peasant. Some of the passengers
grumbled and sat with drawn brows, composing in their
minds angry letters to Authority, or to the Press, but others
seized the chance to slip merrily out of doors for a breath
of air and a view of the green fields.
Satyajit, languid on the cushioned bench now vacated
by the other occupants, reached out for his cigarettes but,
on second thought, withdrew his hand brusquely. That won’t
do, he told himself with a stern shake of his head. His
smoke was rationed. He had attuned himself in the past
month to a fast-growing list of denials, large and small,
and this was one. How can he afford the unrestricted luxury
of chain smoking? Life lay sharpening to realities that still
had the semblance of an undreamable dream.
He winced, the turning wheel of fortune in his unhappy
eye, as always. Along the orbit of reminiscence he went
2024-25
Page 2


Glory at Twilight 85
Glory at Twilight
 Bhabani Bhattacharya
F F F F F Look for these expressions in the story and guess the meaning
from the context
brusquely attuned himself
queer rhythmic frenzy wrenching
flush of prosperity daze of bewilderment
wide-eyed wonder and eager homage
talking animatedly tremulous deliberation
on terms of a perpetual feud
The slow, narrow-gauge Indian train with its awkward freak
of an engine had a way of making unauthorised stops for
no good reason, between fields of corn or at the foot of a
village—it was said that the guard signalled a halt to pluck
a pumpkin or ripe melons from its stem or to buy fistfuls of
green gram from a peasant. Some of the passengers
grumbled and sat with drawn brows, composing in their
minds angry letters to Authority, or to the Press, but others
seized the chance to slip merrily out of doors for a breath
of air and a view of the green fields.
Satyajit, languid on the cushioned bench now vacated
by the other occupants, reached out for his cigarettes but,
on second thought, withdrew his hand brusquely. That won’t
do, he told himself with a stern shake of his head. His
smoke was rationed. He had attuned himself in the past
month to a fast-growing list of denials, large and small,
and this was one. How can he afford the unrestricted luxury
of chain smoking? Life lay sharpening to realities that still
had the semblance of an undreamable dream.
He winced, the turning wheel of fortune in his unhappy
eye, as always. Along the orbit of reminiscence he went
2024-25
86 Woven Words
round and round, pulled by a force beyond his will. The
banking establishment of which he had attained control.
The amazing tempo of it all. Luck had come his way,
undeniably, but behind it was his mind, his initiative, grit,
energy. Starting as a mere clerk he had become Managing
Director. And now? What now?
Tall, thin, near forty, he had sharp features, the hair
receding on his temple in wide shiny smooth patches. His
eyes hated glare and he wore smart eye-glasses to shield
them. His mouth, thin-lipped, would tighten in repose to a
line that suggested strength of will but might have been
only pride.
‘What now?’ he said to himself in an underbreath. Those
words had become his obsession. ‘What now?’
He had no business to be on this wretched train on a
neglected railroad, travelling away from the city where he
must look for work, for the means of living. With the sudden
collapse of his bank, all his private assets were gone
overnight; the equities; the house on Tagore Street; even
the two cars, his and his wife’s. A mercy that she was
away from the scene, with her parents at Delhi, and
unaware of the full extent of the ruin. A telegram had come
last Tuesday announcing the safe birth of her child. Their
first-born, for he had married late in life. His son, his heir.
And he had sold off his diamond ring to send his young
wife a remittance for the name-giving rites.
She had married a man of fortune—that made it harder
for him in this crisis. True, she knew all about his earlier
life. But that was story-book stuff. It could be narrated
happily to their first-born when he grew older. The story
lay killed by its sequel—failure. Glory was all overlaid with
dark shame. Glory was dead.
It would be easy enough today if there were none else
to think of except himself. Born in a humble village home,
self-educated, struggle had been his life-breath. How
grateful he was for the clerkship he secured. A turning of
the wheel of fortune? he had wondered. The next turning,
a year after, was more dramatic. What made him give a
fixed look to the man beyond the brass grille of the counter?
The cheque presented for encashment was not a large sum.
2024-25
Page 3


Glory at Twilight 85
Glory at Twilight
 Bhabani Bhattacharya
F F F F F Look for these expressions in the story and guess the meaning
from the context
brusquely attuned himself
queer rhythmic frenzy wrenching
flush of prosperity daze of bewilderment
wide-eyed wonder and eager homage
talking animatedly tremulous deliberation
on terms of a perpetual feud
The slow, narrow-gauge Indian train with its awkward freak
of an engine had a way of making unauthorised stops for
no good reason, between fields of corn or at the foot of a
village—it was said that the guard signalled a halt to pluck
a pumpkin or ripe melons from its stem or to buy fistfuls of
green gram from a peasant. Some of the passengers
grumbled and sat with drawn brows, composing in their
minds angry letters to Authority, or to the Press, but others
seized the chance to slip merrily out of doors for a breath
of air and a view of the green fields.
Satyajit, languid on the cushioned bench now vacated
by the other occupants, reached out for his cigarettes but,
on second thought, withdrew his hand brusquely. That won’t
do, he told himself with a stern shake of his head. His
smoke was rationed. He had attuned himself in the past
month to a fast-growing list of denials, large and small,
and this was one. How can he afford the unrestricted luxury
of chain smoking? Life lay sharpening to realities that still
had the semblance of an undreamable dream.
He winced, the turning wheel of fortune in his unhappy
eye, as always. Along the orbit of reminiscence he went
2024-25
86 Woven Words
round and round, pulled by a force beyond his will. The
banking establishment of which he had attained control.
The amazing tempo of it all. Luck had come his way,
undeniably, but behind it was his mind, his initiative, grit,
energy. Starting as a mere clerk he had become Managing
Director. And now? What now?
Tall, thin, near forty, he had sharp features, the hair
receding on his temple in wide shiny smooth patches. His
eyes hated glare and he wore smart eye-glasses to shield
them. His mouth, thin-lipped, would tighten in repose to a
line that suggested strength of will but might have been
only pride.
‘What now?’ he said to himself in an underbreath. Those
words had become his obsession. ‘What now?’
He had no business to be on this wretched train on a
neglected railroad, travelling away from the city where he
must look for work, for the means of living. With the sudden
collapse of his bank, all his private assets were gone
overnight; the equities; the house on Tagore Street; even
the two cars, his and his wife’s. A mercy that she was
away from the scene, with her parents at Delhi, and
unaware of the full extent of the ruin. A telegram had come
last Tuesday announcing the safe birth of her child. Their
first-born, for he had married late in life. His son, his heir.
And he had sold off his diamond ring to send his young
wife a remittance for the name-giving rites.
She had married a man of fortune—that made it harder
for him in this crisis. True, she knew all about his earlier
life. But that was story-book stuff. It could be narrated
happily to their first-born when he grew older. The story
lay killed by its sequel—failure. Glory was all overlaid with
dark shame. Glory was dead.
It would be easy enough today if there were none else
to think of except himself. Born in a humble village home,
self-educated, struggle had been his life-breath. How
grateful he was for the clerkship he secured. A turning of
the wheel of fortune? he had wondered. The next turning,
a year after, was more dramatic. What made him give a
fixed look to the man beyond the brass grille of the counter?
The cheque presented for encashment was not a large sum.
2024-25
Glory at Twilight 87
Eye upon eye. Alarm vivid in the face and the hand on the
counter shaking curiously. Surprised, stirred by a quick
impulse, he took the cheque to the accounts desk, compared
the signature with the one on record. It tallied. But that
face, that hand. A hundred reasons, none connected with
the cheque, could explain the face and hand. Even so, the
impulse led him to the telephone. ‘Sir, have you signed a
bearer cheque for Rs 2,000? It has yesterday’s date...’ ‘Rs
2,000? No.’ His heart felt pain for lack of air. ‘Sir, are you
sure? The signature seems okay.’ In the next instance he
was back to his counter in a rush. Where was the man?
There, close to the exit, and the face turning back for a
moment wore stark fear. He was going away.
Feet bounded up the counter. The bank clerk hunted
down his prey on the gravel path, twenty paces from the
front door. There was no struggle. The man crumpled down
in a heap. He squatted with head between his hands, looking
down, tears rolling down. ‘Why did you have to commit
forgery?’ ‘She has TB.’ ‘She?’ ‘She is dying for want of
medicine.’ ‘Who?’ ‘My wife. I saw no other means. I give
lessons in Maths to the rich man’s son. That money...’ The
head between the hands wagged from side to side in a
queer rhythmic frenzy.
That was the way the clerk grew into an accountant.
He deserved what he had gained. He was not made to be a
mere clerk. Lost in the thrill, he had honest contempt for
his stepping-stone, the forgerer. You could not commit such
a crime even to save your dying wife. But today, as he sat
on his lone bench on the train, he saw mind-pictures and
felt troubled. The crouched figure on the gravel path
wrapped in mute grieving. The prisoner at the bar, face
frozen, as though he had died within himself. Had he
anything to say to the Court? the Judge had asked. ‘Punish
me.’ ‘Is that all?’ ‘Punish me as a killer.’ ‘Killer?’ ‘I have put
my wife to shame. Shame kills as fast as TB.’
Yes, that wretched one had turned the wheel for him
with his trembling hand. From that point the wheel attained
a volition of its own, moving continuously. He had every
reason to be grateful to the forgerer. Too late now to seek
him out, give him a chance to live?
2024-25
Page 4


Glory at Twilight 85
Glory at Twilight
 Bhabani Bhattacharya
F F F F F Look for these expressions in the story and guess the meaning
from the context
brusquely attuned himself
queer rhythmic frenzy wrenching
flush of prosperity daze of bewilderment
wide-eyed wonder and eager homage
talking animatedly tremulous deliberation
on terms of a perpetual feud
The slow, narrow-gauge Indian train with its awkward freak
of an engine had a way of making unauthorised stops for
no good reason, between fields of corn or at the foot of a
village—it was said that the guard signalled a halt to pluck
a pumpkin or ripe melons from its stem or to buy fistfuls of
green gram from a peasant. Some of the passengers
grumbled and sat with drawn brows, composing in their
minds angry letters to Authority, or to the Press, but others
seized the chance to slip merrily out of doors for a breath
of air and a view of the green fields.
Satyajit, languid on the cushioned bench now vacated
by the other occupants, reached out for his cigarettes but,
on second thought, withdrew his hand brusquely. That won’t
do, he told himself with a stern shake of his head. His
smoke was rationed. He had attuned himself in the past
month to a fast-growing list of denials, large and small,
and this was one. How can he afford the unrestricted luxury
of chain smoking? Life lay sharpening to realities that still
had the semblance of an undreamable dream.
He winced, the turning wheel of fortune in his unhappy
eye, as always. Along the orbit of reminiscence he went
2024-25
86 Woven Words
round and round, pulled by a force beyond his will. The
banking establishment of which he had attained control.
The amazing tempo of it all. Luck had come his way,
undeniably, but behind it was his mind, his initiative, grit,
energy. Starting as a mere clerk he had become Managing
Director. And now? What now?
Tall, thin, near forty, he had sharp features, the hair
receding on his temple in wide shiny smooth patches. His
eyes hated glare and he wore smart eye-glasses to shield
them. His mouth, thin-lipped, would tighten in repose to a
line that suggested strength of will but might have been
only pride.
‘What now?’ he said to himself in an underbreath. Those
words had become his obsession. ‘What now?’
He had no business to be on this wretched train on a
neglected railroad, travelling away from the city where he
must look for work, for the means of living. With the sudden
collapse of his bank, all his private assets were gone
overnight; the equities; the house on Tagore Street; even
the two cars, his and his wife’s. A mercy that she was
away from the scene, with her parents at Delhi, and
unaware of the full extent of the ruin. A telegram had come
last Tuesday announcing the safe birth of her child. Their
first-born, for he had married late in life. His son, his heir.
And he had sold off his diamond ring to send his young
wife a remittance for the name-giving rites.
She had married a man of fortune—that made it harder
for him in this crisis. True, she knew all about his earlier
life. But that was story-book stuff. It could be narrated
happily to their first-born when he grew older. The story
lay killed by its sequel—failure. Glory was all overlaid with
dark shame. Glory was dead.
It would be easy enough today if there were none else
to think of except himself. Born in a humble village home,
self-educated, struggle had been his life-breath. How
grateful he was for the clerkship he secured. A turning of
the wheel of fortune? he had wondered. The next turning,
a year after, was more dramatic. What made him give a
fixed look to the man beyond the brass grille of the counter?
The cheque presented for encashment was not a large sum.
2024-25
Glory at Twilight 87
Eye upon eye. Alarm vivid in the face and the hand on the
counter shaking curiously. Surprised, stirred by a quick
impulse, he took the cheque to the accounts desk, compared
the signature with the one on record. It tallied. But that
face, that hand. A hundred reasons, none connected with
the cheque, could explain the face and hand. Even so, the
impulse led him to the telephone. ‘Sir, have you signed a
bearer cheque for Rs 2,000? It has yesterday’s date...’ ‘Rs
2,000? No.’ His heart felt pain for lack of air. ‘Sir, are you
sure? The signature seems okay.’ In the next instance he
was back to his counter in a rush. Where was the man?
There, close to the exit, and the face turning back for a
moment wore stark fear. He was going away.
Feet bounded up the counter. The bank clerk hunted
down his prey on the gravel path, twenty paces from the
front door. There was no struggle. The man crumpled down
in a heap. He squatted with head between his hands, looking
down, tears rolling down. ‘Why did you have to commit
forgery?’ ‘She has TB.’ ‘She?’ ‘She is dying for want of
medicine.’ ‘Who?’ ‘My wife. I saw no other means. I give
lessons in Maths to the rich man’s son. That money...’ The
head between the hands wagged from side to side in a
queer rhythmic frenzy.
That was the way the clerk grew into an accountant.
He deserved what he had gained. He was not made to be a
mere clerk. Lost in the thrill, he had honest contempt for
his stepping-stone, the forgerer. You could not commit such
a crime even to save your dying wife. But today, as he sat
on his lone bench on the train, he saw mind-pictures and
felt troubled. The crouched figure on the gravel path
wrapped in mute grieving. The prisoner at the bar, face
frozen, as though he had died within himself. Had he
anything to say to the Court? the Judge had asked. ‘Punish
me.’ ‘Is that all?’ ‘Punish me as a killer.’ ‘Killer?’ ‘I have put
my wife to shame. Shame kills as fast as TB.’
Yes, that wretched one had turned the wheel for him
with his trembling hand. From that point the wheel attained
a volition of its own, moving continuously. He had every
reason to be grateful to the forgerer. Too late now to seek
him out, give him a chance to live?
2024-25
88 Woven Words
Too late. He himself sorely needed a chance to live.
The banking business lay around him in a broken mass
and there was he, prostrate on his face in the wreckage,
sucking its dust. All his fault. He had tried to overreach
himself. Each wrong step was now clear in time’s
perspective. The run on the bank had come all too suddenly
though. Failure had a tempo far faster than success.
He had great need to fly from himself—that was why he
was on this train. A letter had come in the nick of time offering
him an excuse, a temporary relief from the wrenching within.
‘The wedding of my fifth daughter, Beena, is to take
place on the twentieth of this month. I have kept you posted
with the progress of negotiations. I seek your benediction as
in the case of my second, third and fourth daughters—
Kamini, Damini and Suhashi. With Beena wedded, there
will be only Aruna left, and she is in her tenth year. Your
benediction alone can pull me through the present daughter
crisis. That is all I have to say—Your helpless Uncle Srinath.’
Daughter crisis, indeed! mused Satyajit with a dim
smile. Uncle Srinath, a neighbour at Shantipur village but
no blood relation, seemed to have been producing his
numerous daughters secure in the faith that others would
bear the brunt of the repeated crises of their marriage
needs. And Satyajit, in the flush of prosperity, had been
more than open-handed. It was a matter of pride, self-
satisfaction.
In his younger days, the village people had not thought
much of him, had not seen in him any special gift or
brilliance. One of the common herd. That was all the more
reason why he enjoyed success. He needed the wide-eyed
wonder and eager homage of Uncle Srinath and the like
while they had use and longing for his money. It was plain
give-and-take.
All that was over. Fallen from his castle in the clouds,
Satyajit must tread the earthly ways of humble folk. But
he could not deny the old man altogether. He must send
some help. He had pondered over the amount. He had to
ponder over each rupee before he spent it.
Then, all at once, he had come to a decision. He would
go to Shantipur and attend the marriage. This would be a
2024-25
Page 5


Glory at Twilight 85
Glory at Twilight
 Bhabani Bhattacharya
F F F F F Look for these expressions in the story and guess the meaning
from the context
brusquely attuned himself
queer rhythmic frenzy wrenching
flush of prosperity daze of bewilderment
wide-eyed wonder and eager homage
talking animatedly tremulous deliberation
on terms of a perpetual feud
The slow, narrow-gauge Indian train with its awkward freak
of an engine had a way of making unauthorised stops for
no good reason, between fields of corn or at the foot of a
village—it was said that the guard signalled a halt to pluck
a pumpkin or ripe melons from its stem or to buy fistfuls of
green gram from a peasant. Some of the passengers
grumbled and sat with drawn brows, composing in their
minds angry letters to Authority, or to the Press, but others
seized the chance to slip merrily out of doors for a breath
of air and a view of the green fields.
Satyajit, languid on the cushioned bench now vacated
by the other occupants, reached out for his cigarettes but,
on second thought, withdrew his hand brusquely. That won’t
do, he told himself with a stern shake of his head. His
smoke was rationed. He had attuned himself in the past
month to a fast-growing list of denials, large and small,
and this was one. How can he afford the unrestricted luxury
of chain smoking? Life lay sharpening to realities that still
had the semblance of an undreamable dream.
He winced, the turning wheel of fortune in his unhappy
eye, as always. Along the orbit of reminiscence he went
2024-25
86 Woven Words
round and round, pulled by a force beyond his will. The
banking establishment of which he had attained control.
The amazing tempo of it all. Luck had come his way,
undeniably, but behind it was his mind, his initiative, grit,
energy. Starting as a mere clerk he had become Managing
Director. And now? What now?
Tall, thin, near forty, he had sharp features, the hair
receding on his temple in wide shiny smooth patches. His
eyes hated glare and he wore smart eye-glasses to shield
them. His mouth, thin-lipped, would tighten in repose to a
line that suggested strength of will but might have been
only pride.
‘What now?’ he said to himself in an underbreath. Those
words had become his obsession. ‘What now?’
He had no business to be on this wretched train on a
neglected railroad, travelling away from the city where he
must look for work, for the means of living. With the sudden
collapse of his bank, all his private assets were gone
overnight; the equities; the house on Tagore Street; even
the two cars, his and his wife’s. A mercy that she was
away from the scene, with her parents at Delhi, and
unaware of the full extent of the ruin. A telegram had come
last Tuesday announcing the safe birth of her child. Their
first-born, for he had married late in life. His son, his heir.
And he had sold off his diamond ring to send his young
wife a remittance for the name-giving rites.
She had married a man of fortune—that made it harder
for him in this crisis. True, she knew all about his earlier
life. But that was story-book stuff. It could be narrated
happily to their first-born when he grew older. The story
lay killed by its sequel—failure. Glory was all overlaid with
dark shame. Glory was dead.
It would be easy enough today if there were none else
to think of except himself. Born in a humble village home,
self-educated, struggle had been his life-breath. How
grateful he was for the clerkship he secured. A turning of
the wheel of fortune? he had wondered. The next turning,
a year after, was more dramatic. What made him give a
fixed look to the man beyond the brass grille of the counter?
The cheque presented for encashment was not a large sum.
2024-25
Glory at Twilight 87
Eye upon eye. Alarm vivid in the face and the hand on the
counter shaking curiously. Surprised, stirred by a quick
impulse, he took the cheque to the accounts desk, compared
the signature with the one on record. It tallied. But that
face, that hand. A hundred reasons, none connected with
the cheque, could explain the face and hand. Even so, the
impulse led him to the telephone. ‘Sir, have you signed a
bearer cheque for Rs 2,000? It has yesterday’s date...’ ‘Rs
2,000? No.’ His heart felt pain for lack of air. ‘Sir, are you
sure? The signature seems okay.’ In the next instance he
was back to his counter in a rush. Where was the man?
There, close to the exit, and the face turning back for a
moment wore stark fear. He was going away.
Feet bounded up the counter. The bank clerk hunted
down his prey on the gravel path, twenty paces from the
front door. There was no struggle. The man crumpled down
in a heap. He squatted with head between his hands, looking
down, tears rolling down. ‘Why did you have to commit
forgery?’ ‘She has TB.’ ‘She?’ ‘She is dying for want of
medicine.’ ‘Who?’ ‘My wife. I saw no other means. I give
lessons in Maths to the rich man’s son. That money...’ The
head between the hands wagged from side to side in a
queer rhythmic frenzy.
That was the way the clerk grew into an accountant.
He deserved what he had gained. He was not made to be a
mere clerk. Lost in the thrill, he had honest contempt for
his stepping-stone, the forgerer. You could not commit such
a crime even to save your dying wife. But today, as he sat
on his lone bench on the train, he saw mind-pictures and
felt troubled. The crouched figure on the gravel path
wrapped in mute grieving. The prisoner at the bar, face
frozen, as though he had died within himself. Had he
anything to say to the Court? the Judge had asked. ‘Punish
me.’ ‘Is that all?’ ‘Punish me as a killer.’ ‘Killer?’ ‘I have put
my wife to shame. Shame kills as fast as TB.’
Yes, that wretched one had turned the wheel for him
with his trembling hand. From that point the wheel attained
a volition of its own, moving continuously. He had every
reason to be grateful to the forgerer. Too late now to seek
him out, give him a chance to live?
2024-25
88 Woven Words
Too late. He himself sorely needed a chance to live.
The banking business lay around him in a broken mass
and there was he, prostrate on his face in the wreckage,
sucking its dust. All his fault. He had tried to overreach
himself. Each wrong step was now clear in time’s
perspective. The run on the bank had come all too suddenly
though. Failure had a tempo far faster than success.
He had great need to fly from himself—that was why he
was on this train. A letter had come in the nick of time offering
him an excuse, a temporary relief from the wrenching within.
‘The wedding of my fifth daughter, Beena, is to take
place on the twentieth of this month. I have kept you posted
with the progress of negotiations. I seek your benediction as
in the case of my second, third and fourth daughters—
Kamini, Damini and Suhashi. With Beena wedded, there
will be only Aruna left, and she is in her tenth year. Your
benediction alone can pull me through the present daughter
crisis. That is all I have to say—Your helpless Uncle Srinath.’
Daughter crisis, indeed! mused Satyajit with a dim
smile. Uncle Srinath, a neighbour at Shantipur village but
no blood relation, seemed to have been producing his
numerous daughters secure in the faith that others would
bear the brunt of the repeated crises of their marriage
needs. And Satyajit, in the flush of prosperity, had been
more than open-handed. It was a matter of pride, self-
satisfaction.
In his younger days, the village people had not thought
much of him, had not seen in him any special gift or
brilliance. One of the common herd. That was all the more
reason why he enjoyed success. He needed the wide-eyed
wonder and eager homage of Uncle Srinath and the like
while they had use and longing for his money. It was plain
give-and-take.
All that was over. Fallen from his castle in the clouds,
Satyajit must tread the earthly ways of humble folk. But
he could not deny the old man altogether. He must send
some help. He had pondered over the amount. He had to
ponder over each rupee before he spent it.
Then, all at once, he had come to a decision. He would
go to Shantipur and attend the marriage. This would be a
2024-25
Glory at Twilight 89
welcome relief—the city was suffocating him. His mind
would be freshened, his strength renewed for the coming
struggle by a return to the physical scene which had been
his starting point in life. Let that be his starting point once
more, outwardly as much as in the spirit. He would also
take this chance to look at his ancestral house and fish-
pond, both leased out, bits of property still intact amid the
vast demolition. Those he must pass on to his wife as his
last gift. And he had sent word to Uncle Srinath about his
arrival on the marriage day.
The engine came to life with a shrill of warning.
The passenger hurried back. Another half-hour and it
was Shantipur. Satyajit leaned out of the door, his eyes
looking for Uncle Srinath on the station platform, where
many people stood crowded together, alert and
apparently excited, one of them holding aloft the national
flag on a bamboo pole. A political celebrity on the train?
Strange that Uncle Srinath, who had always feared
politics, was leading the group. Suddenly, there was a
rush of legs towards Satyajit as he stepped down. The
legs stopped and a booming chorus followed. Swagatam!
Welcome!’
A small girl with an awestruck face stepped up with a
jasmine garland in her hand. Satyajit stood in a daze of
bewilderment as the girl rose on tiptoe to place the chain
of flowers around his neck. He bent mechanically to receive
the offer, not knowing what it meant. It was obviously a
mistake, a very curious one.
‘Welcome!’ the voices rang again. Then, an expectant
hush. Uncle Srinath turned round to the group. On the
high cheekbones and grey stubble of his face was a clear
coating of strong elation.
‘Friends and brothers! Bengal has seen greatness in
almost every field of action. I shall not belittle your
knowledge by citing names. It is only in trade and industry
that Bengal has lagged behind sadly—the plums of
business have gone to people from upcountry or from
overseas. That is why our hearts grow big with pride at
the sight of a son of Bengal, a son of our own Shantipur
village, who has attained great success in that field, that
2024-25