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I liked her simplicity, and the way she gulped down a cake last time she visited our house still lingered in my memory. That was all about Smriti when I knocked at my aunt’s door on May 1st, 1993. But my visit gave me a shock. She had lost her eye sight due to an accident and had to be helped by her mom at almost everything.Immediately I felt pity for her and thought I had entered the wrong house. To add to their woes, I was now a guest they should attend to. I told mami lot of times to shift to the city where Smriti could get operated but she replied in the negative citing financial crisis. I could understand her point but I surely wanted to help them in any way I could. My mama, when was alive, taught me so many subjects and even given all of the books he had written on Bengali fiction. He wanted to see me get famous and urged me to publish the stories in my name. This strange request timed back just couple of months before his tragic death. It was possible he knew about his. We were finally alone and the world was completely silent. For a good twenty minutes we said nothing to each other, we simply starred at the road in front of us. I tried not to look at him, unsure of what to say, but I could not help myself. I watched him from the corner of my eye. The way his fingers gripped the stealing wheel and slid over its smooth surface. I imagined though fingers gripping ahold of my body and running along my skin. Every hair on my body stood on end at the thought of him touching me, exploring me, loving me. “Turn up here,” I said to him, pointing to a sign that said a park of some sort. “Hurry.” He quickly turned the wheel and we were headed down this mysterious road. His eyes were darting back and forth between me and the road. “What are we doing?” He asked me curiously and a little concerned by the tone in his voice. “Turn here,” I said again, taking us into a deep set of trees that seemed to go on for miles. He turned the wheel again and we made our.
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