Birthday
Bishuda, sixty-five years old, sells potatoes on the footpath. He greets everyone with a smiling face. This year, it seems, he wished to celebrate his own birthday for the first time. He invited twenty-two of his well-known customers from the town. Fortunately, I was on that special list too.
As expected, I reached his house at seven in the evening on the day of the celebration. I saw clearly how terrible poverty can be. Yet his wife was remarkably neat and clean. She served wonderful luchis and delicious alur dom, along with a rasgulla. Chatting with her, I ate to my heart’s content. Meanwhile, Bishuda kept glancing toward the main door, waiting for the rest of the invited guests to arrive.
No—no one else came that day except me. Though they had promised to come, they did not keep their word. Bishuda grew noticeably grave.
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