It was the shade of the ashwath that vanquished all one's weariness from the fiery heat of Choitro. Or else it was not possible for fatigue to be eliminated so quickly. Even until a couple of hours ago, Shyamango's sight had been hazy. The objects he saw assumed weird, broken, and swaying forms. Time and again on the arduous road it had seemed that waves were ascending ahead of him, and then they seemed to descend into the fathomless. Even the steps he took were out of control. He was lurching ahead like an intoxicated drunkard. Sometimes to the left, and sometimes to the right.

It was a really weird situation. When he remembered it now it seemed like a joke. Of course, it had seemed like a joke to him even then. It was natural to think it was a joke. Because you first saw a wild pigeon on a branch of a row of trees with drooping canopies. The very next moment, the small bird became a bounding simian—it too vanished in a moment and turned into a withered tree branch. You rubbed your eyes and then saw that there was nothing. No row of trees, no wild pigeon, no monkey—no withered branch either. How strange—there was nothing in front actually. Only vast fields of kush grass stretching for krosh after krosh. There was no village on the horizon, nor were there anything like woods in sight; the expanse of the terrain simply stretched on and on, the skyline lost in greyness.

Shyamango was lying in the shade of the ashwath with his eyes shut and remembering his experience. He realised that even death had not been an impossibility. He was indeed fortunate that a band of travellers had spotted him from afar just in time. He remembered nothing of when he fell on the ground, when the band of travellers rushed towards him, and how they nursed him back to consciousness.

The middle-aged man came up to him and asked, "I hope you are feeling well now?"

Shyamango hadn't been able to find the words to express his gratitude for so long. Now he said, "You people saved my life—I don't know how I can express my gratitude…"

"Forget that, none of that now—just rest." The middle-aged traveller said, with a tone of deep affection.

The leaves of the ashwath rustled in the Choitro breeze. Shyamango's eyes shut again as he listened to the sound. It occurred to him that the middle-aged traveller was worrying about him unnecessarily. He was completely well now. He thought to stand up, but the very next moment he thought, where's the need to trouble the middle-aged man, what's the harm in resting some more? Let the man return from the riverbank in the meanwhile.

The middle-aged traveller came up to him again and sat down. He asked, "Do you want to accompany us?"

Shyamango could not figure out what he ought to do. A little while back, another companion of the middle-aged man had asked him the same question. He hadn't been able to say anything then either. The group was heading southwards by boat, towards Baanpur—while he had to go to Rajatpat, on the bank of the Aatreyi. He considered accompanying them for some of the way. He would have to be on the road all by himself after that. He was candid with the middle-aged man. He said, "You know my destination, you tell me what I ought to do—you are an elder, please advise me."

Perhaps the middle-aged man would say something. But the man who had been dispatched to the riverbank came running just then. He informed them that a boat was leaving very soon for their destination.

Those who were stretched out beneath the ashwath jumped up and began getting ready for the journey. The middle-aged man too was a bit fidgety. Nonetheless, he asked, "Will you come along with us?"

Shyamango could not respond this time either.

Finally, the middle-aged man himself declared, "I don't feel like leaving you alone like this and going away. And if I take you along, then later, when you return home, you'll find it very difficult. That's also a matter of concern."

That was true. If he really had to go southwards with the flow of the Punarbhaba river, then he would have to get off the boat midway and travel a great distance by foot. And that route was completely forested.

Before Shyamango could decide whether or not he should go, the band of travellers had left the shade of the ashwath. Resting against a youth's shoulder, Shyamango walked slowly to the riverbank. There was a tree there as well, a banyan. Shyamango sat down beneath it and looked all around; there wasn't merely a single shady tree but several of them. He surmised that the residents of the Punarbhaba bank were decent folk. He liked the place. The resting place was lovely.

A white cow was grazing on the other bank—a dark-skinned girl was running after two baby goats. The river current was very gentle. The boats at the bank were afloat yet still. It didn't seem that a waterway was flowing beneath them.

Without any further delay, the travellers boarded the boat. It was difficult to say why they were anxious. Because it didn't seem that the boat would leave very soon.

This is an excerpt from the translation of the Bangla novel, Prodoshe Prakrito Jon (originally published 1984), by author Shawkat Ali.

Translated by V. Ramaswamy

V. Ramaswamy, along with Shahroza Nahrin, translated Life and Political Reality: Two Novellas by Shahidul Zahir.