The Boy Who Loved

by Durjoy Datta

And I ate because I believe the easiest way to fool anyone into not looking inside and finding that throbbing mass of sadness is to ingest food. A person who eats well is not truly sad.

At the breakfast table, I asked if Bengalis too have their versions of churis and chamars. ‘Yes, we do,’ Maa said. ‘But all that doesn’t matter any more. No one cares about caste except the politicians. For them every division is a vote bank.’ ‘So you will have no problem if someone in our family gets married to someone who’s an SC, ST, a Dalit or something?’ Maa–Baba looked at me, horrified. ‘We would mind,’ grumbled Baba.