The Summit: Part 1
A lazy Sunday afternoon made for peaceful naps after a hearty meal of rice, kosha mangsho, mango chutney, and papadum. I was reclining in my favourite solid teak armchair, a gift from my late grandfather, its armrest smoothed by decades of rest. The jasmine-scented breeze announced the arrival of spring. Somewhere, a cuckoo cooed—its rare melody cut through the monotonous whirr of the ceiling fan, and I drifted into a lovely daydream.
Just then—BANG!
Riju, Toony, Munai, and Dhruv—a four-person kalboisekhi storm—crash-landed on my bed, causing an uproar.
“THAMMA! THAMMA! THATUUU!”
My nap flew straight out of the window, likely hitching a ride with that disappearing cuckoo.
“Why such a racket?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “What happened to your judo-ludo, karate kicks, ballet, or chess strategies?”
“Ma and Kakima are going shopping. The dads are glued to their laptops. So, it’s a holiday!” Toony twirled like a real ballerina.
“And Thamma doesn’t need a holiday?” I pouted.
As soon as Mandira disappeared down the corridor, the four dynamos immediately swarmed my armchair, turning the quiet sanctuary into a bustling port of call in seconds. Riju gripped the worn teak of the left armrest, Toony draped herself dramatically over the back, Munai claimed my lap like a queen taking her throne, and Dhruv parked himself cross-legged on the rug, stowing his cricket ball away just in time.
“Nope! It’s your story shift.” Riju’s eyes sparkled. “Today’s schedule says: Sunday afternoon, Legend of Thamma.”
I watched these frantic children of the modern age, weighed down by endless school tuitions and extracurriculars in music, dance, robotics, or chess. Poor creatures are denied the simple luxuries of life—watching fluffy clouds float by or listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops.
“Please, Thatu, don’t be mad,” Munai pleaded, hugging me tight. That nickname—her personal blend of Thamma and Thakuma—had long since stuck like chewing gum under the dining chair, which was their doing, of course.
“No sulking, buri, only storytelling!” Riju cajoled.
“Hey, who is buri? I am just sweet sixteen—times four, minus six,” I muttered, dissolving into deliberate mumbling.
Dhruv, the smart Alec, calculated the maths in a split second. “Let’s play cricket, then. Thamma can be the umpire.” He suppressed a grin and began bouncing his cricket ball against the polished wall.
Also Read: The Sovereign Paradox: Part 1
I hated umpiring. My weak knees protested every squat, and negotiating with stubborn batsmen or bowlers arguing over the umpire’s verdict of ‘out’ or ‘no ball’ was a perpetual crossfire.
“Save the cricket for the park, Chyamra!” I growled. “You’ve already ruined my sleep; now don’t ruin my wall.”
Mandira peeped from the doorway, smoothing her scarf. “Ma, Kanaida will bring your tea. We’re stepping out. And you four—don’t break Thamma’s back or bed!”
I chuckled at the little devils, now sitting like Zen Buddhas, nodding quietly. “Don’t worry. These Chyamras are absolutely no trouble at all.”
As soon as Mandira disappeared down the corridor, the four dynamos immediately swarmed my armchair, turning the quiet sanctuary into a bustling port of call in seconds. Riju gripped the worn teak of the left armrest, Toony draped herself dramatically over the back, Munai claimed my lap like a queen taking her throne, and Dhruv parked himself cross-legged on the rug, stowing his cricket ball away just in time.
Kanai entered, balancing a brass tray laden with a steaming teapot, a plate of flaky nimkis, and my favourite bone china cup and saucer, which rattled with every step. The arrival of tea acted as a brief, sacred truce, and for a fleeting moment, the whirlwind paused to catch its breath.
“Alright, my little stormtroopers,” I said, “if it’s a legend you want, it’s a legend you’ll get. But absolutely no hallagullas or interruptions, or else I’ll turn into a grumpy old witch who trades naughty children for a peaceful life.”
Toony gasped theatrically, clutching her chest in mock horror, while Dhruv grinned, knowing very well that I possessed neither the appetite nor the heart for such threats.
I took a slow, languorous sip, letting the aroma fill my senses and the warmth settle in my bones.
Also Read: The Sovereign Paradox: Part 2
“Once upon a time, in the land of Rupnagar, there was a king—”
“Boringgggg!” Dhruv groaned, falling backwards onto a bolster. “No more kings and queens, or fairies, please!”
They all began shouting on cue, “We want an ‘A Slice of Life’ story.”
I tapped my chin, rummaging through the archives of my mind. The years folded in on themselves, and suddenly I was back in another time. A faint smile played on my lips.
“Hmm… what if I told you about the time I climbed the summit of Mount Everest?”
Four pairs of eyes widened in synchronised disbelief. A collective gasp echoed through the room.
“You WHAT!”
“Yes. Me. Everest,” I whispered, lowering my voice, and the children instinctively edged closer.
I began narrating…
And, like a film unspooling, memories started streaming out, slowly at first, then in a torrential downpour.
A mint-green countryside with ebony orchards of mango, jackfruit, and tamarind; a calm, duck-filled pond; and mud houses with bright red tin roofs. Only one home stood apart, with polished white walls and a brown-tiled roof, resting beside a Shiva-Kali temple under a massive banyan tree. Every morning, the priest rang the great bell; its deep note carried through the rooms. That was our home.
“Not home, Thamma—mansion!” Dhruv chimed in. “Dad said it had ten big rooms and a huge courtyard where they played football.”
“We called it an uthon,” I corrected, telling them that our village was named Hillol, meaning ripples of laughter.
The Hilika River ran along its edge—a lazy, shallow ribbon in summer where we sieved silver fish with our checkered gamchas. But during the monsoon, it became a ferocious, hungry demon, swallowing everything in its fierce current. Once, even our beloved cow Kali was swept away. No one knew how her tether broke.
The air was sharp and the sun strong. We were happily chasing dragonflies until I recalled Gagan Sir’s tales of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. In a flash, we decided to climb our very own Everest. Tearing an old red rag into strips and tying them to bamboo sticks, we made our flags, and the expedition began.
That day, the rain was slanting down in heavy sheets. I stood clutching my mother’s hand, terrified that the river could take everything it wanted. But my father went out in the lashing rain and brought her back, muddy and indignant.
Beyond the river lay another country, Bangladesh as you call it now; it was East Pakistan then.
In winter, our front yard became a hub of activity. The harvested paddy was threshed and winnowed there. The air was thick with golden dust, and the steady thrum of the flails sounded like rain falling on a tin roof.
The most magnificent features were the haystacks, where the harvested sheaves were stacked, some towering over our house itself. Occasionally, we would try to climb them, scraping our hands and feet on the tightly packed hay.
At dusk, when we returned home, washing away the dirt with cold water made our bruises sting terribly. But the thrill was too great to resist. We dared not tell anyone, especially my janani. Yet she had a way of noticing everything without ever prying. She would simply hand us a bowl of warm mustard oil, her quiet, commanding gaze letting us know she wasn’t fooled.
Also Read: The Sovereign Paradox: Part 3
“Was your mother’s name Janani?” Munai asked innocently.
“Oh, you kids!” I laughed. Janani simply meant mother, spoken with reverence.
One afternoon, a few of us—your Khuku Thamma and some neighbourhood girls, including Dukhi Thamma—were out in that very yard. Remember Dukhi Thamma? Her real name was Sulochana, chosen for her lovely eyes, but losing her father at a young age earned her the moniker Dukhi, the sad one. Though she is a famous doctor now, she still insists on being called ‘Dukhi’, as it anchors her to her roots.
“That’s bullying, Thamma. But it’s nice of her to like that name!” Dhruv said gravely.
“We were too naïve to think of it that way,” I smiled and continued.
The air was sharp and the sun strong. We were happily chasing dragonflies until I recalled Gagan Sir’s tales of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay. In a flash, we decided to climb our very own Everest. Tearing an old red rag into strips and tying them to bamboo sticks, we made our flags, and the expedition began.
The prickly hay stung our bare arms and feet, the coppery sun burned our faces, and the tamarind-scented wind hissed warnings. Yet we clawed our way up, slipping and sliding back like loose sheaves of grain, each failure fuelling our resolve to reach the summit and plant our flags as true conquerors.
At one point, Dukhi was nearly at the summit, her eyes wide with victory, before the stack groaned and she tumbled down in a tangle of straw, pulling Khuku along. Dukhi scrambled right back up, while Khuku stood there, silent and forlorn amid the golden wreckage. Then the fever of the game caught on, and she was back at it, her small hands searching for a grip.
Sometimes at night, strange howls echoed from the nearby jungles. Jethai said it was the Bhurshiyal—a big, fox-like beast that snatched away naughty children.
The sky bruised from violet to orange to a murky grey. Our shadows stretched longer and longer, turning into wall-crawling giants. But nothing seemed to exist except our determination to reach the top, until Supti Pishi came running.
“Your Ma is furious! You wild creatures, come home. At once!”
Phoosh! Our warrior spirit died in an instant, and we fled in blind panic. After ferociously scrubbing the hay dust off my limbs, I quietly retreated to the big communal room with my books, keeping safely away from Ma in the kitchen.
Also Read: The Sovereign Paradox: Part 4
With no electricity—only Petromax lamps and old kerosene lanterns casting flickering shadows on the walls—unease crept in easily. Moreover, Supti Pishi had craftily instilled such a deep fear of latas—the slithering serpents—that we dreaded even uttering the word after sunset, as if doing so might summon them from the dark.
I longed to go to the kitchen, where the earthy tang of the cow-dung fire mingled with the aroma of boiling rice was deeply comforting. Instead, the acrid scent of burnt kerosene hung heavy in the air, like a premonition.
But an angry Ma was never a good sign. Why had we been so stubborn that day? Why hadn’t I come home earlier?
As I sat mulling over my regret, Ma appeared at the door. Her silhouette filled the frame, her face unreadable in the dark.
Thinking she had cooled down, I jumped up and buried my face in her sari, breathing in the familiar, lingering scent of turmeric and woodsmoke.
She quietly pushed me away.
“Where is Khuku?”
Her voice trembled; her face was grim. I instantly knew something was terribly wrong.
“Why? She’s in the kitchen, playing with her toy dishes,” I replied, confused.
“Are you sure she’s in the kitchen?” Ma asked, her voice dangerously low. “Weren’t you both playing together?”
My mind went blank. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning!
Khuku had been with us, climbing the haystack together. When Supti Pishi called, we ran in a frenzy and never looked back.
Where was Khuku, then, if not in the kitchen?
Ma always said: Sisters play together, sisters return together.
Sometimes at night, strange howls echoed from the nearby jungles. Jethai said it was the Bhurshiyal—a big, fox-like beast that snatched away naughty children.
Had it taken Khuku? But Khuku was quiet and sweet. I was the naughty one.
My heart began to pound. I could no longer hold it in. In a grief-stricken voice, I screamed, “The Bhurshiyal took her! The Bhurshiyal took Khuku!”
The room froze. Not a whisper, not a breath.
Just silence.
To be continued…
Illustrations are generated by AI
Monideepa Banerjee is an avid explorer and a passionate writer from Bangalore, India. Her articles on travel, art and culture have been featured widely in many prestigious dailies and magazines, photo-journals and web-portals in India and abroad. She has a Master’s degree in Journalism, a B. A in English, a B.Ed. and a Diploma in Early Childhood Education. She is well-versed in Bengali and English and writes spontaneously in both languages. Her published books, ‘The (mis) adventures of Teddy Tumbledore, ‘Tilly’s Squad in Jungle Beats’ and ‘ঠাম্মা ও গাভাস্কর’ are well accepted by young readers for their engaging, simple narrative and emotionally resonant content. Her latest work, a three-book series in Bengali ‘টেডির মজার কাণ্ডকারখানা’ is enjoying a good run.
