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more tea?” he shouted. “Today is the last day for free tea! No more free tea from tomorrow. Tomorrow you pay.”
    Biren looked puzzled. “Why is he giving free tea?”
    “Don’t you know?” said Chickpea. “Tilok had twin baby boys yesterday. He should be giving everybody free tea for two weeks.” He cupped his hand and yelled, “Do you hear that, Tilok? We demand free tea for two weeks.”
    “Trying to make me a pauper, are you?” Tilok laughed. He burst into song as he poured the tea in thin frothing streams into a line of terra-cotta cups.
    “Just listen to him—he is such a happy man.” Kanai chuckled. “Now, if he had twin daughters, he would be singing a dirge.”
    Biren pushed his toe into the sand, thinking. His mother envied Apu for having girls. She made cloth dolls for Ruby and Ratna. She dressed baby Ratna in tiny saris and put flowers in her hair. “I wish I had a little girl,” she lamented to Apu. What puzzled him was Apu wanted boys and Shibani wanted girls. They each wanted what the other had. The fishermen on the other hand were unanimously in favor of boys. Daughters were viewed as a curse, it seemed.
    Kanai flicked the butt of his bidi into the sand and sighed. “I go to the temple every morning to pray my wife has a son this time.”
    “I have three daughters!” grumbled Dadu. “I had to sell my cow to get the last one married off. Marrying off daughters will pick you clean, like a crow to a fishbone. I would be in the poorhouse if my son had not brought in a dowry. By God’s mercy, all four children are married and settled now.”
    Biren shaded his eyes toward the far horizon and jumped to his feet. “Oh, look!” he cried. “The jute steamer is coming!”
    As so it was. A black dot had just popped up on the horizon. Its square form distinguished it as a flatbed river barge designed to carry bales of jute, tea chests and other cargo.
    Biren dusted off his shorts and took off flying down the crooked path toward the riverbank. A small brown mongrel with a curled-up tail chased after him, yipping excitedly.
    As the steamer drew closer, Biren saw a pink-faced Englishman sitting on a chair bolted to the deck. The man had one knee crossed over the other and was smoking a curved pipe, looking as if he was relaxing in his own living room. He surveyed the tumbled countryside, the cracked and pitted riverbank and meek-eyed cows huddled in slices of shade. When the man turned his head, he caught sight of the magnificent flame tree by the tea shop and stood up to get a better view. He failed to notice the small boy who waved at him from the riverbank. The steamer passed by smoothly, leaving the water hyacinths swirling in its wake.
    Kanai spat on the ground. “Go, go, mia , run, run, run,” he muttered. “Chase after the belayti , wave to him, bow to him, lick his shoes. He will never acknowledge you. To him you do not even exist. The sooner you get that into your foolish head, the better it will be for you.”

CHAPTER
    7
    The river breeze teased Shamol Roy awake one night. He propped up on his elbow to gaze tenderly at his sleeping wife. Shibani lay on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her lips were parted, and in the yellow light of the moon her skin glowed a satiny gold. Shamol traced her nose and lips with his finger.
    “Precious pearl, sweet beloved, queen of my heart,” he murmured in her ear. “Do you hear the river calling?”
    Shibani’s eyes fluttered open. Her smile gleamed in the dark. “Oh,” she gasped. “Shall we go?”
    “If you wish, my beloved.”
    They tiptoed out of the basha in their old cotton nightclothes and house slippers. The front door closed softly behind them and they ran giggling down the road, holding hands. Free from the cares of parenthood and family, they were like children again.
    Shamol and Shibani had little opportunity to demonstrate their affections for each other during the day. Trapped in their roles of husband and wife, father