Translated fiction: Four young women navigate a rapidly-changing Kolkata in the 1970s

The four of us are out flying for the whole day.

Get it? F-L-Y-I-N-G!

Bulan, Renu, Suman, and Chuni.

Hey, let’s have a bet. Here we are – four of us walking together. Can you tell which one of us is Chuni?

Huh! You can’t spot her, can you? I knew it! Is Chuni even human? A girl worth noticing? A name worth remembering? Cho-o-o Ne-e-e!

Okay, let’s skip over Chuni for now. Tell me who Suman is. H—E-E-E-re’s Suman!

If you count from the left, she’s the third. And from the right, number two.

Suman’s walking with one arm around my shoulder. She smells of stale perfume and sweat. Even her hair has a distinct smell. That’s Suman’s special fragrance. My Suman. No one has the same scent. I love it so much! My arm is touching her firm, proud right breast in her tight bra. So what? Don’t I know her body well?

We often bathe together.

Now, don’t go blabbing to others … please.

One mustn’t speak about the bodies of unspoiled virgins. Last Sunday, when Suman went to get her palm read by a Guru whom her mother knew, she pointed out to me the list of portents about moles and tags in the almanack – the panji. The fat fart didn’t even get it, but...

Read more