The Sandbank Fairy
A little while ago the sun was bright everywhere. Suddenly darkness had dropped like a sack. Rain was falling upon the river. Clouds massed black across the sky. Tonight was the night of the full moon. Yet no moon would be seen, I thought. The wind came from the river toward the fields, carrying with it large drops of rain. On the boat’s planks the riverwater splintered like waves. At noon when I boarded, I had crossed a hundred yards of mud. Now the mud was gone. The brick-paved high road’s embankment lay half submerged. The river’s waves were now vast, heaving. Hasan Ali pressed into my hand a long country bidi. As I raised it to light, he said, “Not from here—brought from Pabna. Smoke it, it will warm the body.” At the prow of Hasan Ali’s boat, four men could huddle together. In the afternoon, Firoz, the younger one, had stretched a plastic cover overhead. But if the prow was covered, inside it became stifling. On top of that, Sadananda’s wife had set a kettle of...