SOME find the way and, again, some don't. Be there never such a rover, he must have the wayfarer's heart. A craving for the distance. And an immense pair of feet. Only then, after much traveling, does the way become plain at last, its twists and turns, ruts and ditches begin to show, its shape and secret become familiar.

Sripati, the music master, can distinctly recall that the last time, when he got off at Rasa station from the first train for Palasthali, it was already evening. There were two roads. One going east and one going west. He went eastward

That was two years ago. Since then, the region had been racked by flood and famine, and no call had come. It was parched again this year, but it wasn't like the end of the world. So word came once again for Sripati, the musician of Ilambazar. It was a summons by postcard, "Come over, master, we've brought out the instruments." Not a great many words, but there was a hidden strength in the call. Somewhat like the waters stealing under the bed of the Sal river in the height of summer. Water clear as glass the moment the sand is scratched. Coolness quenching the soul. There was no time to be lost. After the ritual obeisance at the homestead and at his mother's feet, Sripati set off, like last time. He had asked his brother to look after the grocery shop till he returned.

It was dusk last time too. Exactly three people had alighted from the train. The first two started walking westward at once. There remained only an old man. He too strode ahead at a young man's speed. The musician, almost forty, could hardly catch up, not as long as he moved at this hare's pace. After a while, he managed to pull even with long strides.

"Which way should I take for Penchalia, sir?"

Lifting the stick under his arm on to his shoulder, the old man said, "Straight on. Then south."

"Right."

"Got to cross the Waylost Plain first. Then straight on, just follow your nose."

What the old man said after that turned the blood cold. A stranger new to the Waylost Plain invariably lost his way. A bare plain. No settlements anywhere, before or beyond. It takes quite a while to cross. People usually have some sense of direction. But if that sense goes wrong, one must look at the heavens. One has to see if the star there is steady or flickering. That is the Wayloser's Star which makes one lose the way and then find it again. If you see that the star is flickering you've had it, mister. However long you walk the night will never end. All night you will go round and round in the Waylosing maze. So what should one do then? Surely, there must be a way out. The old man walked up to a crossing of three roads and stopped. Pointing towards the right he said, "Straight on."

Sripati realized that the old man was going a different way. He persisted almost with desperation, "What am I to do if Waylosing catches me?"

The old man took the stick from his shoulder and tucked it under his arm, cupped his right hand before his eyes and said, "Splash your eyes three times with piss. Even the ghost of Waylosing will run for his life."

It was clear that way losing was such a hideous thing that one needed a hideous spell to be rid of it.

The man went down the declining path on the left into the thickening darkness. The soil of Bengal west of the Ganges is a tricky shade of red, it turns black in the dark. The path dipped towards the far horizon. Sripati heard the man's stick rhythmically hitting the rough surface, which meant it was no longer under his arm. Without further ado he turned south. The plain after a little while, and the boundary of Penchalia beyond. As long as the clarinet in his sling-bag was tuned, there was no worry. If he saw trouble, he would blow on it with all the air in his chest. The musicians in Penchalia would know that their teacher was coming. Perhaps a cornet would answer from the other side, "Come, friend of my soul, my heart yearns to see you."

The song, however, never reached voice or flute. Fear alone would bring it out. At last Sripati came to a point where the road to the south trailed off. Or, perhaps, where it joined a vast expanse the whole of which was now one big way, a path without margins. To go on, he would have to foot out a track for himself. A yawning darkness waited ahead, stretched across the way. "Come on, wayfarer," it seemed to say, "climb down or just plunge in." The music master hesitated, wondering if he should go back. But can one turn back just like that? The man who had brought the message to Ilambazar had repeatedly said that the musicians of Penchalia would be waiting for him. The wedding season was now close. There would be other festivities as well. The players would learn new melodies from the master, and would then carry the tunes to the joyous crowds in people's courtyards. They would earn a little silver too, to help them fill their stomachs. One could not deprive them of this little. Sripati was no longer unnerved by the darkness massed in front. He could only see the lean anxious faces of the musicians of Penchalia. During the day, he knew, they were bonded labourers, slaving on the fields, shoving the ploughs till the life-blood frothed at their mouths. And at night those hands held the flute and beat the drums, and their voices overflowed with melody. Bare bodied in the morning, they furrowed and delved the mud to give it life. And at night these same men, now in red turbans, would gather to plot another birth. The magic flute quickened both forms of life. In the morning they played the angled flute, and at night the straight one. And who makes the music? The maker is always the same--in the sinuous, dusky player of the divine flute, and in the dark-skinned, yoke-shouldered players of Penchalia.

Sripati walked on, from the path to the plain. The barren ground had the soul of stone. Occasional little kingdoms of grass. For the rest, only clumps of thornbrush. However dark the night, this kind of plain has its own peculiar glow. It comes from the starlight which splinters up from the hard ground in the effort to pierce it. And there is the faint reflection from lamps and lanterns of cottages and pavilions in far away villages. That light touches the Sal wood and spreads over the tops of the distant rows of palms. Like a haze, its muted glimmer covers the emptiness of the world. Clinging to the bare surface of the plain, Sripati saw this enchantment of mingled dark and light, now inseparably one.

As he trudged along, he gained some inkling of the way. He had heard that people found their way on the pathless sea with the help of some sort of a pointing machine. This tract was no different. There was no hint of a landmark anywhere. Only the palms visible at a far margin signalled perhaps a waterhole in the grove. Unconsciously, Sripati's sights shifted. A little to the left. The next moment it seemed as though there was someone walking ahead of him, keeping a distance. Was it many lengths or only a few feet? Who was it? It must be someone, or was he seeing things? Sripati tried to focus his eyes. Yes, sure, someone was walking along ahead. But the gait was not straight. Somehow unsteady, meandering. Walking on the plain at a brisk pace was a person blacker than the dark. The shape flitted like a wisp in the shadows and did not look back.

Although slightly nervous, Sripati did not falter. Instead he slapped his sandals noisily on the uneven ground as he walked. To provoke the figure into looking round, into talking. But no, only the bowed head lifted a little. All that the lambent sky showed clearly was a mess of unbound hair falling to the hips. The cascading tresses made a screen, like the painted frame behind a goddess, and hid the upper part of the figure from view. Her hair blew in the wild wind of late Chaitra, and the end of her sari fluttered. Who could it be? Surely, not an evil fairy? Could it be waiting to wring his neck, thirsting for an innocent musician's blood?

A faint perfume of flowers descended on the plain from the Sal wood on the horizon. Overhead, a bird headed for the wood, beating its wings busily. Far away, on the boundary of the pool, .the palm leaves crackled in the wind, Sripati coughed. "Who is it?"

The shadow stopped. So did Sripati. But the figure did not turn round. So something had to be said after this. Sripati called again, "Who is it?"

The second question had an effect. Slowly the shadow turned. The glow of darkness caught her dusky face. She smiled. Sripati was amazed. In the middle of nowhere, unmet, unknown, she smiles at a strange man. What sort of a girl was this? Could she be one of the loose sorts? Or do witches tempt men like this? Something jumped inside his head. Would he have to spend the night trapped in the waylosing spell of this girl? Sripati swallowed. "I've lost my way."

At once the darkness swayed. She laughed out loud. She laughed, and slapped both her hands. The laughter drowned the crackling of palm leaves from the poolside. The violence of the Chaitra wind seemed tame. Sripati could feel the lonely plain waking from a slumber. The girl asked laughing, "You can't find the way?"

Sripati shook his head in the darkness. One query answered by another.

The girl advanced towards him slowly. The way that was open for him now seemed closed. But the eyes of the dusky girl held no fear of losing the way. Placing a finger on her breast, she whispered, "I live here."

What on earth was she saying? This full-blown woman lives on this blank plain? Sripati said slowly, "That's fine, but..."

"Yes?"

"How come you're wandering around alone after dark?"

"So what?"

Sripati realized it was no use talking to her. There were no straight answers. Besides, if someone found the music-master confabulating with this wild woman in the dark there would be no end of it. He gently eased past her. At once the voice followed him. "Where might you be going?"

"Penchalia," the master answered gravely. Then he started walking, hugging the bag slung on his shoulder. She who had been a shadow all this time was now substance. Her conversation made clear she was no fairy, but human. But of what sort? Better not ponder the question now. What came to mind was the pointing machine which fixed directions on the sea. Should one ask the girl the way to Penchalia? Before turning round he heard the lines. "You pick flowers all night, dear flower-girl, but they never sell." A familiar song. The tune had been partly picked up from the record played on the mikes. It would come out well on the instrument. The music-master slowed down to listen. Although not trained, the voice was not untuned. But not for long. After singing that single phrase, she said, "Father will say the wench is wicked. Mother will say the hussy gads about in the woods and bushes. Strange, the whole world. All stony, like rocks."

Sripati listened to her talking, almost lost in herself. It was difficult to make sense of what she said. Before he could work out how such thoughts could come hard upon a night spent in picking flowers, the words came again. "I have no worries, thank you. Eat and sleep and roam around. Who can tell whose mind goes which way?"

Whose mind? Does she mean the musician's, or her own? Sripati stopped. Then lifting his hand, he said, "Walk ahead."

"What for? It's my home and I'll go as I like."

"Where is it?"

"Penchalia. Who can tell whose mind goes which way?" What an impossible situation! This was a completely untethered female. He had been perfectly fine walking along by himself. Then! He had to get himself into this mess by trying to talk. She won't go on ahead, instead would talk in riddles. Was this the manner of Penchalia? The witchery of the Waylost Plain would have been better. What spell would rid him of this spirit?

Quite a bit had been covered though, unnoticed. Looking back, it seemed about the middle of the plain. A glow from the village could be seen on the far sky. Ignoring the glow stood the sentinels of the Sal wood, their heads in the sky. Trees never sleep. At night they meditate. They stand close to one another, yet acknowledge no bond. The dust was flying before the wind of Chaitra. With the dust against his face and eyes, Sripati made bold to ask, "What is your name?"

"Why? Why should you care for the name of another man's wife?”. Another catastrophe. She was married-a wife with a home and that too in the country! And she wandered about the plain at night! Of easy virtue perhaps, who could tell? The musician spoke in a hesitant voice, "It's nothing. Just asking."

"Good. I'll tell you since you asked. My name is Manasha. The Bauris of Jhampratala are my in-laws."

"And your husband...?"

"The fellow doesn't take me. He has Manasha's father's name, he used to eat off my father's earnings."

In other words, Shankar Bauri of Jhampratala lived with his in-laws. But why did he leave Manasha, what did she do?

"Why doesn't he take you?"

Manasha didn't bridle at Sripati's question. Instead she said in a sort of lost voice. "Who can tell whose mind goes which way?"

Back to the riddle. Changing the subject quickly, Sripati said, "And how far is Penchalia?"

Manasha was as abstracted as the plain. She went on to herself. "It is dark at dawn and again at night. I never can tell when day comes."

"Why?"

Manasha mimicked him. "Why! Like acting innocent, don't you?”

“I'm sleepy, that's why."

"Right."

Sripati did not pursue this. He might trip if he was careless. So he walked with his head down. This was not just a mute plain, he thought as he walked. It had its words, its play of dark and light. One couldn't tell, of course, how this voice would sound under the clear daylight sky. This was just the story of the night. The view of the sky was broken by stars, by the edges of clouds. And here one's steps were broken by the ups and downs of the hard ground. And surely, meanwhile, the musician's sight had been beguiled. For the fragrance of the girl's hair mingled easily with the scent of the Sal wood. "The gusts of Chaitra played with Menasha’s locks. Her moving figure seemed to declare that this huge universe was not just stone. The winds played there and songs rang out.

Just as the plain now rose and now dipped, so did Manasha's speech. The moment one grasped a hint of the way, it was lost again in darkness. Thank the fate that the Wayloser's Star was still looking on steadily. "I can find no hint of the way, after all this time...", Sripati hummed as he walked.

Upon coming close to Dompara four or five lanterns surged forward, tearing apart the darkness. Across the light, someone next to the unknown faces cried out, "The ustad has come."

The people broke into a noisy welcome. All around children scampered like young mice. Sripati saw that the roofs of the mud huts had been freshly thatched with straw. Someone brought out a wicker stool. Sripati sat down. He noticed the inquisitive gaze of a youth fixed on the sling-bag. Wondering what sorcery it held. An old man kept fanning him with a palm leaf. Just then a female voice screamed like a kite's inside the hut. "Slut, ditch-scum! The god of death has left you no shame! She's killing me, body and soul!"

Accompanied by Manasha's weeping. One couldn't follow the words for her sobs. What came through was that she could not tell whose mind went which way.

At Sripati's looking up, the old man said, "Manasha ...with you...?"

Sripati nodded. "Me, I am Srishtidhar. I am the father." Sripati was on the stool. Three lanterns were lined in front of him. Beyond them, the bare-bodied, deep-coloured men, the musicians of Penchalia, were sitting in a circle. Behind them again was the crowd of boys and girls, looking at the master with wide-open eyes. How the oil gleamed on his long curled hair! He had a dhoti and a yellow shirt on. And you could guess the betel-stains on his teeth.

Now the piercing voice and its filthy swearing could be heard from inside the hut. With Manasha's howls and laments. Sripati was troubled by a vague sense of guilt. He looked up again into the eyes of the man fanning him. Srishtidhar said quickly, "She is not right in her head. My son-in-law has left her."

At last he could piece the picture together. After marrying Manasha, Shankar Bauri found she was unstable. He was comfortable in his in-law's house. During the day he would work for wages with Manasha's father and brothers on others' fields, and in the evening, tight with drink, he would listen to music. He did not touch the instruments. He had no rights there. Just as Bauri could never handle the musicians' instruments, so he could not, try as he might, ever really hold Manasha. Slowly he understood that Manasha's heart had no home. The whole daylong she roamed under the trees at the waterhole, and turned towards the plain the moment night fell. All alone she strayed in the dark. The harshest beating would fail to tame her. Father and husband had drawn blood again and again. Manasha had rolled on the ground crying twice as hard. The blood from her lips had dyed the Dompara soil a deeper scarlet, yet she had not changed. Every night she fled, to a free, dreaming nature, a nature that answered hers. Shankar could not take this. Evil stirred in him. Driven by fury and jealousy the man found some peace by running away early one morning. Listening to Manasha's weeping Sripati thought that the spell of waylosing had left Shankar Bauri.

The musicians sat in a circle. Sripati had the stool in the centre. A slight breeze relieved the weariness of the journey. Now to business.

To Sripati's right sat Srishtidhar with a drum on his lap. On the left was Adhar with his cornet. In front of him were Mahadeb, Subal, Naren and the other players. They sat leaning against one another, each with an instrument. No one spoke. Somewhat like the silent row of Sal trees seen from the plain. As if sitting in meditation. Sripati took out the flute from his bag and carefully wiped it with a corner of his shirt. The lantern lights slipped off its gleaming bell-metal ornaments. The musicians with their unoiled heads gazed at it with wonder, or were these the grave rows of Sal trees beyond the far plain? Sripati looked up. A sliver of a moon had appeared like a crack in the sky. Like a wedge of milk-white coconut placed on a dish of betel nuts. Strange offering for a strange worship. A rite of silence, of waiting. The master touched the flute to his forehead before bringing it to his lips. At once he could hear the stream of notes from the crackling palm leaves at the grove. The lips touched the flute, they puckered, and then kissed with love. Instantly the air broke in waves: "You pick flowers all night, dear flower-girl, but they never sell."

Manasha was standing outside the reach of light. Her eyes were shut. Swaying gently the crazy girl listened to the flute.

Manasha was not seen again that night. Sripati's bed was made in a little room with a porch leading to the yard. Rice, both boiled and fermented, brought a heavy sleep the moment he lay down. He saw her next day by the pond.

The level of water had sunk in the wide pond. There was no sludge, and the sand and pebbles below were clearly visible. The smooth sand poured easily over a dipped foot. Sripati, sitting on a flat stone on the bank, was scouring his teeth with a neem twig. It was a pretty place in the daytime. On the other side were a few palms, with saplings and young ones, and three mango trees. Towards the west, by the steep pathway, a lone fig tree surged up at the sky. At the foot of the tree, a dove rested on a vermilion covered stone. Sripati bit on his twig and looked at the sky. A pleasant morning. Spring seemed to have paused at the point of leaving. That news was borne in the feel of the breeze. Lowering his head to rinse his mouth, he saw Manasha coming down by the path on the other side. Her drying cloth wrapped round her, stale clothes on her arm. On seeing Sripati, she stopped herself on the verge of a smile. She thought for a moment, then put down the clothes on the bank and walked along the edge to his side. Flinging the twig into the water, Sripati looked at her, "Well?" "Thief."

"Where?"

"Before my eyes."

Clearly the epithet was meant for him. But why? Manasha looked at his eyes and said, "What are you looking so dumb for?"

 "Humph."

"What humph?"

"I don't get your meaning."

"Of course not-the dog of the wilds lurks in the tiger's lair."

"Meaning?"

"Tricked me into singing my song. And now of course you're such an innocent."

Don't they say that laughter in the morning is cause for mourning? So, although fighting it back was painful, Sripati didn't laugh. Splashing the floating neem twig away from him, he said, "Is the song something you bought?"

Manasha suddenly drew herself straight, then thumped him unexpectedly on the back with her fist and replied, "Not bought, but known."

She wondered as she almost ran down the edge of the pond, "Who can tell whose mind goes which way?"

Sripati had strolled to the waterhole by the palms. The water level had gone down, as if to match the decline of the year in Chaitra. A pair of cormorants kept diving in and popping up. They looked around warily. Dived again. Sripati sat in the narrow space between two palm trees He had no shirt on and the flute lay on his lap. He had just lit a beedi when his eyes fell on the cormorant couple. Eros had grown strong in them as in everything else in this season. They wooed each other, and could not let go. Sripati was reminded of the Purana stories he had heard in Kajipara. In his induction to the Manashamangal, the storyteller had related how Mahadeva himself had grown wild with desire at the sight of his daughter Manasha sporting in the water. Manasha realized that she had to calm her father's headstrong lust, or catastrophe would overcome the three worlds. She exhausted her wiles, but managed to cool him down at last. This Manasha's husband too was Shankar. No doubt he was a Bauri, but in reality he was Mahakaal. Is that why he could not cope with Manasha and had to run away? Sripati balked at these thoughts. He quickly turned his attention towards the pool. He saw the male prick his companion with his bill. She too pressed her bill against her mate's. The flute rang out. The player thrilled with an inner music.

On opening his eyes, he saw Manasha sitting at a distance. He had not noticed her arrive. Her hands were gathered on her lap. Her eyes tranquil, she was gazing silently at him. Still playing on the flute, Sripati smiled. But Manasha did not return the smile. Only her head swung gently. The musician played on, his heart anguished. Could the demented girl sense the message that gave life to the melody? But then, what would happen if she could? The flute plunged into silence. Then Shankar Bauri would not have left Penchalia. And Manasha would not have sat listening to the musician's flute in this seclusion. Manasha stopped swaying. "What's wrong?"

"Why?"

"Go on playing."

Sripati looked into the distance. His stay here would last another couple of days at the most. Then he would go back. Back to his buying and selling of groceries. His glance fell on the two cormorants. They were now close to ecstasy, emitting low sounds of pleasure and fluttering their wings in the water. He raised his eyes towards Manasha. So much neglect had left no shadows on her cheeks, no lines on her brow. Although her unoiled hair was full of tangles, the sunlight leaped off her cheeks. But the fine nostril was bare. It was pierced, yet the ornament was missing. A tiny jewel would have looked pretty on her. He called softly, "Manasha."

"Yes?"

"You ...you ..."

Manasha looked at the musician dreamily, "What is it?"

Sripati swallowed. "Why don't you oil your hair?"

Manasha burst into speech. "Mother keeps saying that the hussy roams in the dark, gads about in all sorts of places. Father keeps saying she is never in the house. And also others keep saying I am bad. And besides..."

"Please, listen Manasha, listen to me."

"Forget it. Don't tell me about chastity. I live as I like, I look at the world. But the day ends so soon. And the night fills everything, like water. You know, don't you. I can't understand anything. I stay awake at night. Who can tell whose mind is going which way?"

Manasha's eyes were brimming over. For the first time, Sripati saw in her eyes tears instead of laughter. Manasha was weeping. Her tears trickled down to her lap. The musician heard rain among the palm leaves. Flooding without stay, sounding a deep sadness. He lifted his hand. "Manasha."

Manasha looked up, abstracted. "Manasha," Sripati called again. Weeping still, Manasha said, "Yes?" Sripati pressed his lips to the flute and blew: "Too hard, my friend, your heart..."

Two nights came and went. This was the last evening. The musicians of the village had picked up quite a few scores in these two days. Although they were not all equally good, Adhar could do the tunes. The boy was sensitive. He had felt that Sripati was playing his heart out. When he played, Manasha came to sit quietly by. Then nobody could find in her the wild restive girl.

Adhar said, "Today we want a new song, ustad."

Sripati smiled. Srishti rapped the booming drum while talking, "This year we'll make a name for ourselves. What do you say, Subal?"

"Oh, yes, yes," Subal nodded emphatically. "We'll put up our rates," shouted Mahadeb. Sripati raised his hand. Instant silence. The flute lay on his lap. Joining his hands, Sripati said, "Bless me, my friends. May I not lose the music."

They all fussed in reassurance. Srishtidhar quickly covered his teacher's hands with his own. "What are you saying, master? You are our guru."

Sripati touched those rough hands to his breast before letting go.

Three lanterns stood burning in a row. A carnival of breezes blew over the margins of Dompara. Caught in the crosswind the flames would not stay still. Sripati said, "Put out the lights."

All the lights were put out. In the dark, Sripati saw from his wicker stool the black Sal trees seated in silence. The wind jounced the straw thatch on the roof. Windblown dust and leaves made a stir in the yard. But these human beings did not move. The wedge of coconut overhead was slightly bigger today. Its glitter reflected off the ground. Amidst all this, they sat still, as if possessed by the Waylosing spirit. Perhaps there are moments when Waylosing comes into the yard, up the porch, and even enters the corners of the room. The fields and banks are at those times its kin. In the soft moonlight the musicians, high on rice beer, sat absorbed, waiting for the magic the master will make. Further away, leaning against a darkened wall, stood Manasha. Her unkempt hair floated in the untamed wind. Sripati blew on his flute: "The secret words like a treasure lie deep inside my heart..."

Someone shouted in the darkness, "This song won't do."

People murmured among themselves. Srishti's drum petered out before completing the first cycle. He looked disturbed. But Manasha's voice cut the uneasy moment short, "Shut up! Great music lovers, the lot of you!"

There was some tittering at this. The trees rubbed shoulders. Ignoring it all, Sripati went on playing: "But the heart can't speak of what it knows and that is deeper smart..."

The sad notes of the flute repeatedly tore the still night air around the players' neighbourhood. But Sripati could not make out if Manasha were breaking or melting. He only saw the darkness against the wall sway to and fro.

Before the first bird-note next morning, following the beams of the lantern held by Srishtidhar, Sripati left Penchalia.

Today, even after a gap of two years, Sripati has not forgotten the way. This is mid-Baishakh. So the wind breathes a stinging heat. It is towards evening, but the air has not cooled. Grasping his sling-bag, he sets foot on the plain.

Everything is the same. The Sal wood in the distance. The palms fringing the dark waterhole. Even the Wayloser's Star. Nothing is lost. Traversing the plain in the glow of starlight, Sripati wonders when the Waylosing spell would catch him. When would he see the fitful shadow moving along? The breath of the Sal wood in the divine screen of hair; and the awakening of all nature in the laughter. Nature never really sleeps, it only rests. To arouse it from rest comes another ingenuous nature. Because it alone knows nature’s ways. Joy one moment and sorrow the next. A scorching squall followed by rain. Such mystery is beyond Shankar Bauri. He has no flute in his hands.

Still looking for that phantom, Sripati reaches the middle of the plain. But where is she? Fireflies flit around him. Like a garland of lights circling the dark. The sparks scatter far and wide. The palm leaves tremble with the thrill of a waterfall. Amid all this, the vast plain lies in rest. Worn out with the day's heat. And right at this moment the musician has stepped onto its heart, a mere human being. Incapable of even scratching its surface with his toenail. Where would he make a dent, its heart is of stone. After all, this is not the sand of the Sal river; with crystal water below. What can a man do, alone? But Sripati knows that he has something in his bag which can bring water from the stone at a single call. The hard ground will move. The Waylosing spirit will fall under her own spell.

Sripati breathes on his flute. The song of picking flowers' all night. He crosses the plain still playing the melody. Sripati plays the catchy tune at his own lively pace and feels the plain waking up. Indolent nature stirring itself. The whole universe seems to stretch luxuriously. Nobody called quite like this for two years. Today the call can be heard again. It has come from the heart. But is she still caught in that old doubt, wondering whose mind goes which way?

Leaving behind the plain and the path, Sripati comes to a stop before the musicians' doorway on the edge of Dompara. The conch shells have been blown through the village long before. The lamp still flickers at the shrine of Chandi. Three or four dogs bark upon seeing him. He calls loudly, "Anybody there?"

At first come the flock of boys. Like a handful of dry windblown leaves on a dust rail. A toddler holding on to his sister's hem. Behind them Srishtidhar comes first, light in hand. After him Subal, Naren. Lifting the light to his face the old man smiles, "Are you well, master?"

Sripati smiles and nods.

"But your face looks pale. Come into the light, the eyes are weak." Bringing the light closer, Srishti carefully studies Sripati's face, Naren says from behind, "Look at the crowd come to see ustad."

Sripati stands with lowered head. How beautiful is the life of the Sal trees. He only says, "Is everything alright?"

They answer in chorus that they are all very well. The two years, had been bad. The crops failed. So there was neither work on the land nor calls for festivals. No one thinks of having a good time when the going is hard. This year there are a few contracts, may be because things are mending all over. Srishtidhar leads Sripati in by the hand.

Nothing is lost, not even the wicker stool. Sripati sits with his bag held close. The lanterns have been lit as usual. The musicians sit rubbing shoulders beyond the lanterns. Their eyes are on the master. Looking forward to the new melodies they will learn from him again this year. But where is she? Manasha cannot be seen anywhere about. Sripati thinks he will ask for news of Manasha. Instead he says, "Where has Adhar gone?"

Mahadeb says, "The master is only concerned about his disciple."

"No, of course not, just asking," Sripati smiles.

Mahadeb replies. "That good for nothing is gallivanting around."

Before Sripati can ask anything more, Srishtidhar points to Santhalpara and says, "The bastard is mad for that witch. Never picks up his instrument, always hangs around over there."

But Sripati's mind is not on all this. He had thought that someone would now volunteer information about Manasha. But no one mentions anything. Sripati looks far beyond the edge of light. There is nobody there. Only a clay pot sways from a bamboo pole supporting the porch. On this side, across the yard, is the kitchen. There is light inside. Vague figures move about in the glow of a wood fire. A goat cries somewhere near the kitchen. Sripati brings out his flute. Srishti says quickly, "No, no, put that by. Cool down first."

At the sound of a child crying in the far room, a married woman with her head veiled comes hastily out of the kitchen. Srishti raises his voice, "Has everyone gone to sleep?"

A young girl's voice answers, "In a moment, the water's heating."

Sripati figures that there is no point in waiting. He blows casually on the flute. No particular melody. He picks up the opening notes of a meaningless tune and plays on. He plays, but he does not close his eyes. For his mind is not on his music. The men chatter away. A few of them have lit beedis. Only old Srishti rubs his hands on his knees. The fast-paced notes stream out formless. As if searching everywhere for the way. Fruitlessly scouring the dark. May be a hopeless search for a self wrought illusion. Sripati plays, but the darkness in the corner of the yard does not sway; the flute calls, but no one answers.

A little girl comes to leave a bowl of puffed rice with a blob of jaggery and fried potatoes. Sripati puts down his flute and picks up the bowl. For Srishti is insistent.

A married woman with covered head comes out of the kitchen, a glass of tea in her hand. As she bends to place the glass, Sripati's hand stops before his mouth. The lamplight cannot entirely hide her veiled face. The musician sees clearly a tiny star glittering on Manasha's nostril. She had vermilion in her parting and her hair made a neat, wavy fringe above her eyes.

Sripati is still. He tries to say something and cannot. Manasha seems to put down the glass with much grace and diffidence. But where is the screen of hair scented with the Sal wood and the wide dreaming plain? And the trill of cascading laughter, the percussion of the pathless wind? Is she the same girl who could never tell whose mind went which way? Srishtidhar speaks up. "It's good wishes from all you good people, master, that Manasha is cured. There was a pledge to Baba Mahadeva as well."

The Musician slowly lowers his head. His flute lies on his lap, resting. "And yes," Mahadeb adds, "her man's back."

From the front row a dark skinny character offers Sripati a beedi and smirks, "I don't play instruments, ustad. I smoke."

The crowd hugely enjoys this clowning. Sripati mumbles, "But this is not what I came to see." Srishti says, "Did you say something, master?"

Sripati says in a lowered voice, "Who can tell whose mind goes which way?"

Dry leaves fly in the dust raised by the frenzied wind of Baisakh. The breeze in the palms by the waterhole strikes up the high tumult of the monsoons. A squall snuffs out the lantern. And the spirit of Waylosing covers the universe.

In the dark, the musician sits facing the Sal wood and plays: "Too hard, my friend, your heart..."

A stinging wind chafes the stony soil. All ways are lost in the blinding dust storm. Nature is burning in the flames of a fiery Baisakh. The locks of an enraged sun seem to hurl and crash. With such a blistering noon over his head, the musician sets off on the journey back. The russet dust, like sparks of fire, flecks him in red, as red as the sky above. At such a time, the most desperate search will not reveal the Wayloser's Star.

Translated by
Bhaswati Chakravorty and Swapan Chakravorty