Cutting through the winter haze, the colours that rose into the afternoon —blue, green,
yellow, all mingled together,looked like a cluster of soap bubbles . Along both banks of
the quiet river stretched an endless yellow of mustard flowers. From the dusty road, the
slope leading down to the river was carpeted with green grass . In the distant orchard on
the far bank, the thickening shadow of dusk had already begun to darken the leaves,
which now looked strangely black.

Beyond the woods lay the railway line built by the British, abandoned now and
wonderfully quiet for walking. Crossing the tracks, passing beneath the pomelo trees,
leaving one courtyard after another behind, one came upon a little patch of field where
two or three goats were tethered. Their bleating rose above the afternoon birdsong, yet it
did not drown out the beckoning promise of crossing the river by the bamboo footbridge.

All this while the girl had been walking just behind, or at best alongside, her friend’s
uncle — careful that no one should notice the safety pin holding shut the torn zipper of
her pretty pink frock. But now, what was she to do? There was no way to walk two
abreast on the bridge. Her friend’s town uncle or her friend— who should go first? Or
would she herself have to go ahead of them? In an instant all the colour drained from her
face, and it went dry and pale.

Luckily! Uncle with the camera hanging from his shoulder, stepped onto the bridge first.
Her friend followed him, and the girl in the pink frock came behind. Her small hand
barely reached the bamboo railing, yet she crossed the bridge quite easily.

How was she managing it? Then she remembered: whenever she went to her uncle’s
house,mamabari, she had to cross a bridge like this. The memory of that familiar journey
made her heart jolt at the thought of her mother. She had been here without her mother
for three days. If she had to stay one more day, surely she would suffocate and die from
missing her mother. Her eyes misted until her longing for home dissolved into tears.

Not that staying here was any hardship in itself — the exam centre was close by too. She
studied together with her friend; and her friend’s aunt even fed her, cooking whatever
food she liked. And now, on top of it, her friend’s town uncle was taking them out to have
their picture taken.

Anyway, after crossing the bridge and reaching the other side, the breeze felt good. In the
afternoon, women and girls from the village came to take their cows and goats home.
Someone had come to pick tender pea shoots. Their little boys kept a sharp watch over
the young peas, lest anyone steal the tender green peas.

Ignoring all those eyes, the girl kept looking only toward the eye of the camera. And yet
she was terribly shy about having her photograph taken. Who knew what she looked like
through that lens?

Last year, an older boy,dada, from the neighbouring house had told her that he had
bought a feature phone with a camera. He had promised to take her picture. She had
dressed up specially in a sari for it, but afterwards the boy announced that the phone, in
fact, could not take pictures. No one else remembered the incident afterwards; she had
simply not yet reached an age where being humiliated like that, after swallowing her
shyness for it, was something anyone thought worth keeping in mind.

But all the while, the old embarrassment kept scratching at the back of her mind. What if
they laughed at her? The dress itself was beautiful: a pink georgette frock, gathered into a
full skirt, with puffed sleeves and embroidery across the chest. It belonged to her elder
sister—but then, wasn’t it always the younger sisters who had to rescue whatever their
elder sisters bought on a whim or forgot about?

Now she was angry with herself for having worn it at all. Though, in truth, , what other
dress did she own that was fit for having her picture taken?

They took photograph after photograph—sitting in the mustard field, with her arm around
her friend’s neck, trying pose after pose they had been taught. It seemed the safety pin
was not only holding shut the zipper of her dress — it seemed, too, to be holding shut
something in her mind, and her mouth along with it She longed badly to see how the
photographs had turned out, but her lips remained sealed.

How effortlessly her friend spoke! How freely she seemed with her uncle. And she
herself—if she could, she would have disappeared into the earth.It was this same uncle of
hers who brought her friend coloured pencils and beautiful frocks with wide skirts. And
her own uncle? Every time he came, he promised to bring her colours-and after so long
spent watching the road for him, she no longer even felt envy about it.Though only a few
days ago she had learned that this uncle was, in fact, not her mother’s real brother at all.
The girl let out a long sigh.

Buying colour pencils for her niece today, the woman’s mind suddenly ached, unbidden,
for those old photographs. To hold onto that stretch of time — living under the pressure
of exams, speaking little, playing the good child, wanting just a little affection, just a little
regard — she felt, for the first time in her life, she felt a deep desire to see the
photographs that had captured it.And yet, everything else around it had remained,
astonishingly, just as vivid in her memory, even now. Everything—except the photograph.

Short Story written by Tanusree Das