Labanga turned around and her heart missed a beat. She looked at the village that was to become to reminder of all the joyful companionship that would perhaps never return again. Its red soil had been a silent spectator to her bliss and agony. And a sense of vacuum overwhelmed her completely.
She was going back to her father. She saw the village, the country beyond the village, the dazzling afternoon, but she felt she had no place in it. Her husband no longer cared for her. There is the other woman. She is beautiful and bewitching, not dark and ordinary like her. Kalachand had a mysterious liking for her and they settled down naturally in physical intimacy. Whatever he earned went to her. What else could be do?Indeed everybody in the family was won over by the magic of her words, and the dreams of a better tomorrow. Labanga had brought them only ill-luck and misfortunes. Her touch had ruined everything. She was a thing of ill omen. She tried to adjust, but the tyranny of society marred her chances of a happy married life. Nasty quarrels and clashes ensued, disrupting the peace of family life. Labanga failed miserably in every step. Kalachand could not endure her and would often hit back like a bullying savage.
Labanga was tired. The fields were hot and dusty. The sun was bright and she could see heat waves rising. She felt she would never reach home. She had been walking mile after mile, ascending and descending the steep paths. Her son trailing behind. That morning she was beaten for no reason whatsoever. Kalachand had caught hold of her long, black wavy hair and banged her head against the wall. It was so painful. She looked so ugly in her, tatters, and swelling. The greatest pain was caused when Kalachand looked at her and then spat on the ground, cursing himself and the day he had married her.
Labanga said nothing. For she was ridden by the awful sense of her own limitations. She knew she had to leave, she would be chased out sooner or later. Before marriage, her father Jatayu had promised to give a bicycle to his son-in-law.Seven years had passed, but there was no sign of the cycle. That was the beginning of Kalachand’s anger. Her father-in-law stopped talking to her. A gentlemen in known by his words and deeds. Her father failed to keep his word. So what good should they expect from the daughter of such a man. And so after the birth of their son Nonai, their married life became dark and discontent set in. Yet it was to her Kalachand nestled every night as his body took fire and beat up in flames. The shame of his need weighed on her and she would weep bitterly.
The marriage of Kalachand’s sister was fixed. The prospective son-in-law was a rice merchant. His only demand was a bike, for, he needed to go around. But, where would the money come from? Kalachand went to her father, but Jatayu’s life had become poorer. How could he help them, when he himself survived on charity?
Labanga felt dreary and lonely. She could not blame her father, she could not even discuss the topic with her husband. So she suffered, like a sulking dog.
Her poor father advised her to adjust herself to her new surroundings. Labanga tried but satisfactory adjustment was a far cry. Very soon cracks began to appear in their relation, leading to despair. The first shock came when she overheard her mother-in-law voicing lies about her and her husband agreeing to push her out of their house. Her faith in life was shaken and her own bitterness of disillusion was hard to bear.
Labanga could not put an end to her life. Nonai stood, guarding the way. Moved with pity she knew that the naval string that connected its frail body with hers was too strong to be broken. Her aggrieved soul found fulfilment through childbirth and sight of her son overwhelmed her with a flood of love and affection. She remembered the days when she was overcome with awe and wonder, with happiness that made her soul leap, every time their child quivered in her womb.
The fire of anger and hatred that had been burning steadily for the last seven years burst into flame. Labanga knew that everybody in the family was busy talking about their ill marriage. They would to kill her if necessary. For how she else could they bring in the Lakshmi? Enjoy her riches?
They spoke about her father’s falsity, ridiculed her and scoffed at her. At such moments Labanga felt despair overcoming her that brought in its trail the painful realization that she had to wrench herself away from her husband. She could no longer endure the frequent humiliation. She felt it was time to shun all contacts. On the village path at the western side of their village Labanga was walking rapidly. The over-arching blue dome did not give her any hope or consolation.
Oppressed by cruelty and callousness she was in trouble. She did not have a roof over her head, no sky. The other one had slyly snatched away everything. Even Kalachand. Labanga was jealous of her, though she did not meet her. Only the other day she saw a photograph of her husband and the other one. Together in close intimacy. It was rumoured that they had, signed a paper at the court and then taken the blessings of the goddess. No wonder her vermillion line was so bright and beautiful. But it confirmed her sense of doom.
Labanga set out with her son on the pretext of plucking spinach. She was not afraid because she was restless. With many a silent tear and faint averted feet she trudged on.
For two miles she did not stop, till she reached the local market. Looking around she wiped her face and then looked to her son; who was staring at the brick houses, and the taps in surprise.
‘Don’t you feel hungry, son?’
‘Yes. Give me some gram. I want gram.’
Nonai ate it with relish and asked for water. Labanga spotted a pond in the middle of the market. As she forwarded to the crystal clear water she was amazed to see Kanthiram. He came up and said rather hesitatingly: ‘Labanga’.
Labanga remained silent. It had been a long time, since they met. Nearly six years. Kanthiram spoke again:
‘I never thought, I would meet you here. What luck! Where are you going? Won’t you come to Nonakhal?’
‘Yes, I will. Will you come along us?’
Kanthiram nodded.
‘Then wait. My son is thirsty. Let him drink water and then we will set out. Together.’
‘Where is our kalachand, our son-in-law?’
Labanga could not reply. She looked at him helplessly as tears formed in the corner of her eyes.
‘I meet your father often. He feels you have forgotton him.’
Silently like the sparking dew drops, Labanga’s tears fell.
‘Why are you crying, Labanga?’
Kanthiram looked into her eyes, directly. He saw her nose ring on which like a pearl, lay a forlorn tear drop. Beautiful. Celestial. Illusory.
 
Chapter – 2

Jatayu was sick. It was the tenth day of his fever. The grief-stricken father could not look at his daughter’s face. Poor man! He did not know how to remove the rust that was settling on his daughter’s life and bring back brightness, and polish. Labanga was silent and withdrawn these days. There was a haggard look in her eyes, she was worn out too. Only seven years back, she was so full of life and lustre, like the lush green grass that would create sparks of joys in her heart. She smiled to hear the rustle of the leaves, she joined the birds in their singing, she would hum as she did the household chores. When she came back after the day’s work she would tell her father about little things. Jatayu’s poor little room would then resound with soft joyous tidings as he bent his ears to listen carefully to the rippling sound that zigzagged their way into his heart and lulled him to sleep.
Jatayu could not sleep these days, not even with the rising temperature. His served limb also pained. He was not born with it; he was a victim of malice and wrath. The dacoits had brought down their battle-axe on him mercilessly, while trying to escape. The people of the village felt Jatayu would not live but Jatayus do not die so easily. They would remain as silent witnesses to all the inhuman and tyrannical events. The burden of scarcity and poverty that he had been carrying on his back since then, increased every time he fell sick. There was nothing to eat and there were three mouths to feed. Yes, craving for a square meal is what Nonakhal and its breeze give freely to everybody who lived there. But without sweat and toil it was impossible to get even a handful of rice. Saline water was available in plenty, for Nonakhal was generous, but not rice.
Intelligent Labanga took stock of the situation. She did everything naturally and quickly. She was not ashamed of any work. During summer, Jatayu’s tea stall did not pull the crowd. The people wanted a glass of cold drink made with lemon and a pinch of salt. They could not afford it. A lemon cost one rupee something they could hardly afford. And those who come to the stall where customers who could not date to spend a full rupee to quench their thirst, when the steamer came, and could spot a few strangers. The local market was two miles away from their village. People from the neighbouring villages went there to buy their necessities. Then they would visit the cinema hall, wander about aimlessly and then return home with wonder open eyes.
Since Jatayu’s fever Labanga had been working night and day to save her father and her son from starvation and death. She had a hard-working and enduring nature. Jatayu wondered why such a girl suffered at the hands of a cruel society. He realized too, that Kalachand had nothing noble in his character. He had taken advantage of his helplessness and poverty to subject this child to pain, hardship and torture in more ways than one.
Labanga nurtured the hope that Kalachand would one day come to take them back. But days passed into weeks, into months, yet the familiar footsteps did not reach her. She knew he was happily married, to the other woman. He raced about in his new motorcycle, a gift from his second father-in-law. His business flourished, he had money that fetched him everything. Perhaps happiness too.
This news hurt Labanga. She felt she was a prisoner tied to the chains of social code that would choke her to death. A deep sigh escaped her and she turned her eyes towards Nonakhal, as the sound of the water dashing against the shores reached her. The sound actually passed through her like a streak of cleansing energy. She sought consolation and strength from the water that rose and then fell. Did the waves reach the destination; did they always hold their heads high? She missed her goal. But why would she rail at fate and count herself abused?
When Labanga returned from her husband’s home she found her ailing father in the midst of acute poverty, she thought she would try and solve the problem of her family. She would be able to steer the lifeboat to the shore, safely. But the shore was too far, the water, turbid and greedy. The boat’s sail and top mast were not strong enough to resist the toppling waves.
Labanga gave the keys of the tea stall to her father. In a low voice barely audible she said:
‘I could not manage the stall. Our village is a den of the wicked. They think I am a commodity, easily available.’
Jatayu wanted to know the names. Labanga looked at her father sadly. He was losing his healthy firmness of flesh. How could he face the ruffians?
NetaiSantra came often to their stall. He came with evil intentions. Never did he pay for the tea and biscuits. He said to Labanga one day:
‘Write it down against my name in that book.’ He came back again and said: ‘The day I take you to the sandbank I will pay you in cash. No credit on either side.’
His words bred a feeling of hatred and revulsion in her. Labanga stared, helplessly as Santra stalked away. She knew that he desired to possess her because her family was caught in distress. Since he was vain he treated her in a shabby way. He was the most trusted follower of the village Chief. He roamed about with his red motorbike. The Chief did not lag behind. A downright lecher he too approached Labanga to satisfy his sensual desires and animal instincts. He was however shrewd and tactful in his black designs. In a low voice he said to her:
‘Tell me what to do. Netai is always with Abala. I feel so lonely. There is no one to look after me. But if you look after me and my needs then you and your family will have a roof on your head, and a square meal always.’
Labanga turned her face away. She felt sad to see the degradation of her village and it’s folk. She suffered from a sense of inferiority complex, as she could not give a fitting reply to the Chief. She remembered Kalachand, she longed for him. She remembered clearly the first time he drew her close. She had then remained still as anchored to a rough sea. It was their restoration, their recognition. The denial of physical passion, crude tension and conflict in her soul brought in a painful feeling. Despite touches of cruelty he had great force of attraction in him. Labanga never wanted to leave him, in spite of the beatings and abuses. But the gulf between them began to widen, till one day she was compelled to run away. Many a night Labanga sat on her bed, looking at the darkness. The night and the star studded sky failed to provide her solace and comfort. The chill night wind passed through her breasts and over her shoulders. She shivered and craved for Kalachand. For inspite of the clashes, their sexual relation constituted a deep and complete consummation.
Kalachand was happy with his new wife and motorcycle. Perhaps, he would never come to her. He had no need for her, but Labanga needed him desperately. She could not walk through this life alone. Her father was fast asleep, but Labanga stared at the night sky. She tossed restlessly on her poor bed listening to the different sounds. Their hut was overpowered by the darkness. The earthen lamp was too feeble to dispel the fears that kept on multiplying.
If anything went wrong, would she be able to save herself from destruction and ruin. She sat there statue-like. She gazed at the night sky but her gaze was vacant and blank. The night life was conveyed to her by the breeze. Sounds came from the trees and shrubs, from the canal that sent distinct melancholy notes of an altogether different timber to mingle with the breeze. And it made her acutely aware of her loss.
She pulled a sheet turned aside and drew Nonai close. At this time of the year winter still lingered. The embankment could not prevent the chill air that blew all the year round. On moonlit night the embankment could be seen clearly clothed in the silver light of the moon. It looked unearthly. During monsoon, had it not been for the embankment the fields and fallows, the dreams and hopes, everything would have washed away. Everything needs a support. The embankments on either side of Nonakhal beautiful in their wildness, aroused sensuous warmth in her, it made her pant with agony. Like the flooded river that smiled in a reckless devastating form and dashed against the shores, Labanga fell on her bed to lose herself in waves of her black hair. The turbulent swell of desire, so sensational and exciting ebbed out, and she sank into a deep slumber.

Chapter - 3
Falgun set in with its glory. The trees put on new leaves. The people of Nonakhal woke up from their slumber. Their hearts were warm and the wind was fresh. It had its own fragrance in the minds of the people. They shook off their lethargy and plunged headlong into work.
Labanga searched without success some light occupation in the immediate neighbourhood. She wore herself out doing odd jobs to earn money, to meet the requirements. The people were willing to take her as a hired hand, for a meal a day. But the system would not sort out her family crisis.
For a few days she tried her hand at making a kind of food made by parching rice on hot sand. Without experience even such work did not fetch money. Labanga did not repent. She knew that the impossible would be possible tomorrow.
She would not be a burden to her old father. She would stand on her own feet by her honesty and integrity, by the sweat of her brow. 
Labanga began working at Poddar’s husking machine. But her employer was informed that she could not work very well, that she took home grains of rice. Old Poddar was a wicked man. Suspicious and close-fisted by nature, he tore Labanga’s blouse showing her round bosom to his men, in the name of searching husk and grains of rice. Helpless Labanga tried in vain to save herself from such humiliation.
‘These are only particles, Babu, Paltry things on which you feed your cattle and peafowl. You threw it away. I collected it from there. Where is my fault?’
Jatayu returned from the hospital the day Labanga lost her job. The old man could only lament:
‘A girl cast away, in poor and humble conditions.Always in danger. People eye her with evil desires and whisper about her. They bully her and degrade her. She becomes a victim to their lust.’
Labanga knew that her father spoke truth. She did not have any experience of life. Naïve and innocent, the sorrow in her life was the result of social customs. The words of the mean and the wicked pierced her with horror. She grew sick at heart: ‘O God! How am I to know all these? Why didn’t you tell me there is danger in men folk?’
Jatayu needed rest and food to recover. Poor Labanga did not know what to do. There were wrinkles on her face. Sometimes there was a note of sorrow in her voice. She sold the three bottle-gourd and bought fish. But there was no rice. Labanga was determined to give her father rice and fish. She made up her mind to go to her childhood friend Abala.
She thought of their childhood days when they were sheltered and secured; she remembered the tears that followed their mischiefs, the smiles to see the green meadows, the flowery groves, the grass covered hills and specially the canal that quenched the thirst of the land and the living.
Then Labanga left for her father-in-law’s house. Abala went the next year. But not to live happily ever after. Abala returned, a widow, after only one year. She did not speak of her husband. Not anymore. Forced by fate and circumstances she became NetaiSantra’s mistress, all too soon.
Abala gave Labanga a kilo of rice and four big potatoes. She said, ‘What is this? Don’t you eat?’
Labanga could not reply. She wiped the teardrops that trickled down her cheeks. Did they convey to her dear friend her pathetic condition? Abala looked at Labanga’s youth with wonder and surprise. How did she keep her passion in check? Stop it from rising in a crescendo, culminating in physical consummation? She was overwhelmed to see the self-disciplined Labanga.
With a voice shaking with emotion she said: ‘Don’t cry. Life is marked with rise and fall of joy and sorrow.’ 
Labanga swallowed hard and said, ‘Get me some work, please.’
‘Will you do as I say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Set up a Noonbari.’
‘Many families in and around Nonakhal survive on that. You will also survive. Labanga smiled in her sorrow. Noonbari was not for everybody… everybody could not endure the salt water.
She was filled with apprehension as she brought up the subject. Jatayu said nothing. What value did his opinion carry? He was bent and broken. Yet his daughter wanted his advice. 
It was no mean job to run a Noonbari. Still, as Labanga wanted to take up the work, it would be foolishness to try to stop her. Many girls in their village toiled day and night to make both ends meet. Peace and contentment were a thing of the past.
The air of the village was polluted. The lives of people were repressed due to want and scarcity. They ceased to give spontaneous outlet to their natural emotions and sentiments. And this was brought in by industrialization. 
The village looked towards the town for sustenance. So the poor and the helpless, the women accumulated salt water, boiled it and collected salt from it. They met their own expenses from their little money they got from selling salt. Such thoughts came to Jatayu as he stared at his daughter. At the time of war, he had got a job in the army. But the love and affection of the village-folk stopped him. Even then, in the past the canal flowed by the side of their village. There were snakes in the water; there was want and scarcity yet they trudged on.
Labanga looked at her father, lost in thought:‘What are you thinking of?’
‘About you daughter. Who will look after you when I am dead and gone? There is discord and disharmony everywhere, between everyone, not to speak of the wild dogs that move about. Will you be able to tackle all this? All alone?’
‘I will live father, I want to live. I will not give in easily. If, however, the adverse circumstances of life try to break me into pieces, the water of Nonakhal, will give me shelter.’
Labanga thought of her father’s words as she sat washing the utensils at the pond. She knew her father was right but she would have to throw away all fears, all the conventional theories in order to survive respectfully. And, respectful existence is the worth of life. After her resolution to work, Labanga felt happy and light. The past was past. She saw the green trees in front of her. The birds were chirping and the sun was shining. After many days she oiled her hair. As she was about to put a vermilion spot on her forehead her hand trembled and the red powder fell on her nose. She thought of her husband and an inexplicable passionate longing deeply disturbed her mind.
Abala led a secured life. A security bought at the cost of selling her soulless body to NetaiSantra.
Labanga was sure that Kalachand would never come to take her back. Yet she had to safeguard the vermillion line. Her expressions hardened. She came outside, and the dazzling sunlight made her heart light.
She closed her eyes and took in a long deep breath. 

Chapter - 4
Silence and silver light of the moon ruled all round. The tall trees, with gentle roosting birds in sleep stood tall and straight. The water dashed against the moonlit shore and produced a line of foam, Labanga heard the sound of waves. It made her sad.
Labanga did not want her father to come with her. But to Jatayu, night was associated with evil. It had swallowed up his happiness and was trying to devour his only child. So he came limping slowly.
Labanga stood on the sandbank. After a long time she said: ‘How long does the high tide remain?’
The turbid water dashed against the bank and carried off mud and silt. Its ruthless beauty invoked a sense of fear.
Jatayu looked at the whirlpools. He felt those were traps laid out to trap his daughter.
‘What are you thinking of, father?’
Jatayu replied with his eyes fixed on the water: ‘No one in my family…’
‘Not even for a square meal.’
‘Your mother made salt only for household purposes. That was before your birth. We were not poor, then.’
In the faint glimmer of the moon, the father and daughter stood still. Jatayu was too withdrawn since the day he heard of Labanga’s decision. Some unseen fear lingered in the corridors of his mind. Salt did not bring good luck always. Yet without salt everything is so insipid.
The father’s anguished soul was sad to think of Labanga, her decision and her future. It was clear that the wicked would not let her live in peace. Labanga still had pulsating life in her. The devilish fire that flamed from the lewd, would leave her ruined.
Labanga went down to meet the flashing buoyant water. At the time of high tide the water flooded the whole area. When the water receded, it left behind salt hidden in the sand and mud. People from the neighbouring villages swarmed there like flies to mark out a space. They would examine the mud and then run to the priest. Even he waited eagerly. Phalgun-Chaitra improved his position too. Chanting incantations, he spoke to them about the auspicious dates. He would also tell them how necessary it was for them consecrate the sandbank. For, how else could they produce salt as white as hoarfrost, from the sand and silt?
The water was rising slowly. Very soon it would start trickling down from the embankment. There was fear of slipping any moment yet, Jatayu was not perturbed. The sooner the thorn that stuck in his throat went down, the better. 
Abala and Labanga were always together. Their friendship evoked fear and worry in Jatayu. His daughter was not initiated into the ways of the world. She did not know the wicked and their ways. Would she be able to resist the blind, force seizing on human beings? Or will it bring ruin in its trail?
Every village has its own code of morality, its own customs and its own ways. The people of Nonakhal also had its own custom. They helped the local poet to compose songs on Abala’s life, her abortion, her natural worth. The poet would sing the songs at ‘Gajan’ in the month of Chaitra. NetaiSantra’s money would not be able to stop the slanderous abusive attack on Abala.
The scandalmongers spoke to Jatayu of Labanga’s decision. Some even warned him to be careful. For, who knew whether salt would end up with flesh, or not? Jatayu tried his best to keep a watch on Labanga. The words saddened him. But what could an aged father and a helpless girl do against the evil designs of the reckless man?
The village Chief was absolutely enamoured by Labanga’s beautiful body. Whenever he saw her he felt the thickening and quickening of his blood very strongly. His insinuating remark left Jatayu speechless.
‘Why Noonbari? Why such a tedious job? Her bewitching beauty is enough for ….’
Mortified Jatayu broke down there. The young Chief burst out laughing. He knew Jatayu would not reply. Himself lacking the goodness and simplicity that Jatayu possessed, he spouted his anger in verbal assaults.
Jatayu left the place like a dog mauled in a dogfight his tail droopping. He looked back again and again to see whether the Chief was coming after him.
Suddenly, he saw Labanga near the water. The silver light of the moon fell on her bare back and arms. Such sights pained Jatayu. He could not look at her.
Dependent and exposed to the oppression of the social system and the caprice of those in power at every moment of his existence. Jatayu was conscious of his helplessness in the face of the existing circumstances.
He looked around. Then with the help of his bamboo stick he came down cautiously. The waves were breaking against the shore with a hiss of foam. The roaring canal dazzled him.
The bank on the other side was empty. An old banyan tree stood there like a sentinel. The light that fell on the flowing waters from the boats presented a pageant of movement and colour against the background of the night sky. It had a soothing effect on his seething soul. Labanga stood there like a fearless fisher woman.
The next moment Jatayu felt it was not Labanga but Hemlata herself. The girl had inherited her mother’s beauty and her hardworking nature. The same figure and long wavy hair that reached below her knee and almost made a garment of itself. Labanga was very small when Hemlata passed away. Her lingering tears had dried upon her eyelids. The father and daughter then, sought consolation from each other. But now, her presence bred a feeling of revulsion in him. He remembered the dirty remarks and once again his helplessness struck him in the very depth of his being. How would be answer Hemlata? Could Labanga remain chaste?
Jatayu was at a loss. The thought of Labanga’s future tortured him. He wanted to end his daughter’s life in desperation. He could no longer bear the vulgar remarks against her. He decided willfully, to put her out of count, act from the brute strength of his own feelings. He might drown her if he would. The swift current raced on. One push into the current and Labanga could not be saved. And then there would be no more reproach, no scandal. But the next moment a sense of sadness and loss crept into his soul. Slowly he took stock of the situation. He writhed in pain and an agonized cry came from the very depth of his soul, he slipped and fell into the water. Labanga shrank back for a moment uttering a cry. The struggle with the waves was terrible. It lasted till it was agony to Labanga’s soul. Jatayu seemed to swoon. His walking stick slipped away only to fall into the whirlpools so dangerous in their movement and force. Finding no other support, Labanga threw her sari to her father. Then she went down into cool dark water that seemed to grapple her from all sides. She caught her father firmly, and pulled him out of the water. She grinned even at this critical moment to think she had overpowered the waves. It was quite some time before Jatayu came to himself. Labanga stood still, nude. She tied to cover herself with her hands, shivering all the while, as down her cheeks rolled a tear that glistened in the moon light.  

Chapter – 5
Birds and buds of different hues and shades, of different species and different size, crowded the banks once the water receded. Labanga chased away two crows and walked towards the canal. She could see her footprints on the soft mud. In November after the harvest, the footprints of Goddess Lakshmi adorned the rooms of her father-in-law’s house.
The thought brought tears to her eyes.
The crows came again. The sandbank looked desolate and forlorn. During high tide rushing turbid water, seemed to be indifferent and irresponsible like the rich. The water spread itself idly on the bank, as though savouring the time and respite from its busy schedule. Then when it withdrew, it left behind silt and sand. And all such activities went on silently.
Old Narahari could say how much salt the water contained. The people of Nonakhal depended on his matured opinion. This year of course nobody would go to him.
Narahari and NetaiSantra were always together. But the link-up was not as pure and natural as the converging of the canal with the ocean.
Narahari possessed supernatural power. Yet the same power emitted a fleshy rotten smell. And all for Abala. He no longer frequented the sandbank. He could not help his neighbours.
The day Labanga came to the bank early. She wanted to mark a space for herself. But to her surprise she saw the areas where the water formed a little pool, already marked. As far as her eyes could see, it was only a long line of marks with twigs, branches and ropes.
Labanga was filled with a deep feeling of frustration and despondency.
How ignorant and naïve she was! Her hopes vanished. Her eyes became dim with tears. The canal that extinguished poverty of the land and its living beings seemed to stare back at her.
Labanga started walking aimlessly, but with a regular and steady speed. She did not see the rope securely tied around the four-bamboo sticks in a rectangular form. She fell down and the pointed bamboo stick cut her ankle. Not knowing what to do, she put her hand to the wound, only to be smeared with blood, all over. She sat there, all alone. She did not know there were so many devices and contrivances to mark space. Salt needed hard work and toil. And loving caresses too. Any lapse in it and it would turn away. In her determination to find a space for herself she had come as far as the burning-ghat. She did not fear shadows but wanted to avoid all mankind. She wondered why the sun shone on the just and the unjust alike. She walked straight on. The wind played with folds of her flimsy sari revealing her arm, neck and part of her breast bare, with its softness and firmness. Labanga shivered.
She could not walk. The cool breeze, the whistling leaves, the golden rays held her spellbound. She sat down on the moistened ground. A delicious fragrance reached her. As she folded her arms to sit comfortably, her conch and coral bangles produced a melodious train. The sweet soul-stirring note rolled down to the waters, and filled the nook and corner with its captivating music.
Labanga, caught by the magic and bliss of the waves stared at it in amazement. Her silver necklace came down to her waist, leaving behind the curve of her heavy breast. 
In the quiet dawn the thrill spread into the furrows of her shapely body, to her veins. Labanga bit her lip and stood up straight. She thought of Kalachand and was filled with remorse and self-reproach. She quickly broke a few slender branches and planted it in the wet soil. Then, she went up for a stroll along the sweeping shore of sand. The way home was through a cluster of trees. Labanga turned, trying to save herself from the lascivious wind.
On her way back she met Kanthiram. He stopped short as though he had been a ghost.
Labanga laughed: ‘It’s me. Can’t you recognize me?’
‘O’ Labanga! What are you doing here? So early in the morning?’
‘I want a place, a spot to mark.’
Kanthiram smiled: ‘So we are partners. Come; let us see if we can find any place.
Labanga met Kanthiram the day she left her in-law’s house. She was too scared to speak to him then. Scared of criticism and defamation. So she refused the pan he had offered her. She feared to redden her lips, but her mind was already tinged with bright crimson colour of the early ‘Basanta’, weaving dream upon dream.
In the lovely surroundings of nature, Kanthiram got a chance to observe Labanga closely. He became curious about her. He felt life has been cruel to her. Labanga felt uncomfortable under his stare. She tried to pull her sari, but she was wise enough to understand that Kanthiram’s glance was different from that of the village Chief or NetaiSantra. Deep below in her soul there was an undercurrent of emotional hunger. She could not but bask in pleasure and contentment, every time he looked at her. With his vigorous slender body, the healthy glow onhis cheeks and tumbling hair, he was, to Labanga, the perfection of masculine beauty. His movements were so full of animation and so spontaneous was his response to life that Labanga felt a subtle jubilation like glamour in his movements. She wondered how Kanthiram was able to save his simplicity and rich laugh from the onslaughts of the theatrical party of which he was a member. Whenever Labanga thought of his dark handsome appearance, blood rushed to every part of her body and she could never look full into his eyes.
Suddenly Labanga woke up as if from a trance. What was she thinking? For shame. Kanthiram’s eyes were fixed on her bare arms. Labanga blushed with pleasure and embarrassment. Each and every girl desired this appreciation. So, what was wrong in her longing?
Kanthiram was different. He gave the impression that there was nothing wrong in life, no evil and that one has to be open to feel the joys of life. But, how did he manage to live with such innocence?
Did the salty breeze make young men turn away from love? Did they not desire to sail their boats in the soft surging waves; allow it to drift on the full current…. feel the delicious delirium in the veins.
If they failed to read the message of the eyes, could they hear the utterance of the soul? Was he a complete man who never smelt the fragrance and pain of a woman’s heart?
Labanga looked up at the vast blue expanse. The world seemed so wonderful to her under the golden glory of the early morn.
Gradually she came to herself. A sort of consciousness dawned upon her. Something strange, wonderful and horrible had happened. She was seized with a frenzied desire of what happened, must not be remembered and never thought of. She would not allow her flesh to be a drag and degradation. She would not be a burden. She would make the villagers understand that they could not trample her under their feet. She would work with zeal and enthusiasm.
She knew she could even teach Kalachand a lesson but her desires battled with her conch bangles and the faint vermilion line.
Yet she acknowledged that human beings are both body and soul. The body cannot be denied always. Rather the two must work in harmony. Physical union with the opposite sex released passional tides of ecstasy. But, she was rudely spurned and hated.
Labanga saw before her a long and steep highway..... down which her only soul, would tread, seeking to make a universe of his own.

Chapter - 6
Only three days of scorching heat. The sandbank lay like a paralyzed creature, its back covered with scab and dry blister. The area was filled with smell of salt. All the water plants and weeds had dried up still the birds came, fluttering their wings and turning a back somersault they stared at the water. A flock of cormorants swam right into the middle of the canal. They dived in and pulled out fish with their long beaks, leaving a broad wake of white blue water behind. Labanga turned to her work, thinking nothing could surpass this beautiful picture.
There was less trouble from the ants and insects for the birds swallowed them.
There was an air of festivity at the side of the shoal. The poor and the downtrodden crowded there. As they walked to and fro, the blazing bank threw up needle like dust, which went up in a circular motion, carrying the dry leaves and moss.
Labanga was busy. She reached the sandbank at dawn. But the mischievous wind did not let her work. It was difficult for her to knead the soil for the needle like dust hurt her eyes badly. The common crow, the heron and the rook were busy eating insects. The blind crane sat by the side of the water.
Labanga was busy scraping soil. The work required patience and perseverance, wisdom and keen observant eyes. 
Though Jatayu did not bless her new enterprise yet he had taught her the trick.
‘Rub the gluey mud with your feed and you will feel the roughness in your heels. But be careful. If you rub too much then the salt will scrap the callus from your feet and scar them with agonizing cracks. Labanga turned pale, but Jatayu assured her.
‘There is nothing to fear. Salt does not demand blood. It gives. If we do not take salt our mouths feel tasteless, the world seems insipid.’ So, Labanga was happy and contented. She passed the afternoon without a wink of sleep. She had no worries, she did not even think of Kalachand. If she had to forget him then she would have to do something. Yes, she would be a salter. By hard work and common sense she would prove it to the villagers that the girls would neither be creepers nor remain helpless to be trampled like the soft foam of Nonakhal.
Labanga felt tired. She had been sitting on her haunches for a long time. She could not squat down, for then the people would eye her suspiciously, and blame her. Labanga did not believe all such nonsense. If the soil was perfect, the water thick enough then salt was bound to form. The three days of a month could do nothing to spoil her efforts. She was proud of her work, her pleasantly soft and smooth body. She knew she looked beautiful. But she was scared of the flame that ran under her skin. She was no longer thin and pale, though she did not get a square meal every day. People looked maliciously at her curvaceous figure. Beads of perspiration travelled down to her naval leaving behind her silver chains. Somehow Kalachand was back in her thoughts.
Kanthiram came forward shaking his head. His tumbling hair, shiny black moustache, his rich ringing laugh both attracted and baffled her. It also made its impact on all who came in contact with him.
‘When did you come, Labanga?’
‘It’s quite some time now.’
Labanga tried to sound normal, and concentrated on her work.
Kanthiram’s plot was beside her’s. He stood there for a moment and then pulled out the branches. He threw them into the water.
Labanga said to him, ‘Why did you do that?’
Kanthiram looked at her. His keen look made Labanga feel as if she were numbed by some powerful drug.
‘The branches are so much like you. The sun and the rain cannot do anything. That nearly dry branch will find a place ….. spread its roots … cover itself with green leaves and flowers.’
Labanga felt how correct he was. Kalachand had thrown her out. Since then she has been trying to survice. 
Kanthiram was silent too. He felt salt business was not as lucrative as before. People could buy salt from the market very easily…..Labanga looked at Kanthiram. She was not exactly at peace, but the turmoil was over and the flood of tears dimmed her vision.
On the opposite side of the canal a rustling sound from the tender saplings attracted Labanga’s attention. She thought of her son and her heart was light. She was filled with hope.
Kanthiram had scraped a lot of mud. He sat on the heap holding his cane basket over his head like an umbrella.
‘Do you like my umbrella, Labanga?’
From the fissure and chink of cane the glow of sun fell on his face. He smiled at her.
‘A man without an umbrella is an ill-fated man. He will not be able to save himself from the inclement weather. But if he has an umbrella no harm can come to him. Where is your umbrella?
Labanga was struck with surprise. His direct question spoilt her ease and naturalness. To save herself from his penetrating glance she retorted back.
‘I am quite safe and sound. Go and get one for yourself.’
Kathiram started laughing. He threw his cane basket at her and said :
‘This is my umbrella.’
The basket rolled down the sloping banks. Kanthiram ran after it.
‘Just see, the fool does not know of the dangers hidden under the water.’
Labanga also laughed. Kanthiram stared at her smiling face. Her physical charms attracted him powerfully. His desires so long kept under control was growing forceful and it was Labanga who began to fan this manly flame in him.
Labanga called out to her son, who was busy running about with a kite. He came at once. She said to him lovingly as she stroked his hair.
‘Don’t you feel hungry?’ he nodded and his face lit up. The mother and son washed their hands and sat down together. Labanga hesitated for a moment and then called out to Kanthiram.
‘Are you going to fast?’ Come, let us share the little we have.’
But Kanthiram refused politely. Nanai also refused. He wanted dried fish. He did not like to eat rice cooked overnight and steeped in water with onion. He would not listen to his mother’s word and a full deep cry rose from him, but his shrill sobs were suppressed by a heart-rending cry. It was as though someone was struggling with mortal pain. The birds flew away, even the cranes left the sandbank and sought shelter in the branches of the tall trees. Kanthiram ran to see what the matter was. Labanga followed him – but she fell down. Little Nonai came and stood beside her. He looked at his mother with his round eyes full of fear and love.
‘Are you hurt, mother?’
Tears came to Labanga’s eyes. She felt with Nonai she would overcome all hurdles. She sat there, holding him in a tight loving embrace, with tears in her eyes and smile on her lips.
NetaiSantra passed them. He frightened Labanga with his terrible laugh. His look told her his devilish mind was planning something.
When Labanga reached the spot she found every little space congested with people. She struggled to a carve way. She could not understand anything. The fight for occupation of land was over. The occupier was busy. She shuddered to think of the fight. Unless one came to the bank one could not imagine that the people lived in such straitened circumstances. The determination to occupy land at any cost spoke not only of their struggle for existence but also of their desire to live. They would take home the mud and silt and make salt. Then they would sell it to Poddarbabu and take rice. Back home, with their children and the family members they would have a feast with rice and fish. This is what they hoped and waited for. A deep pain caught hold of Labanga as she realized that nothing had changed with the passage of time. Only essence had changed. She was a part of the change.
The first time she saw them, years before her marriage, she felt that there was a spirit of competition among the possessors. But now the same mind and spirit was charged with gunpowder. Malicious spiteful, ever alert to see how many baskets full of silt the other took home.
As she jostled and pushed, Labanga saw to her horror her next door neighbours old Jata. He was made to pull his own ears, stand and squat with the count of one, two, three…
As the counting reached ten, Kanthiram rushed in to save the old man from humiliation. 
‘Stop! I say stop! Come away. Let me see who can force you to do it again.’
He paused for a breath. Looking around slowly as if to take stock of the situation, he hissed at them.
‘All spineless bastards! Don’t you see? Can’t you see?’
NetaiSantra stepped forward. It was too much for him to bear.
‘You dare to disregard the Chief’s order? Where are you going with him? He is punished for a grave offence.
Wait for your trial.
‘Here I am. Give your judgement here and now in front of everybody. If you dare to.’
The Chief cowed down. He murmured:
‘You will see, wait.’
Kanthiram heaved a sigh of relief as he came out of with old Jata. He wiped the sweat from his face and looked at Jata.
‘What happened? Why are you not working at your plot?’
Jatayu looked around cautiously. Then he pointed to a heap, and tears flowed down his cheeks.
Kanthiram was puzzled. A number of questions came to his mind. He looked at the old man with a frown on his face…
Labanga and Kanthiram were speechless. How? How could Felna accuse the good old man of seducing and defiling her? O God! How… why?
 

Chapter – 7
Labanga was tired. Her arms ached, her fingers were badly bruised. The hard work and toil had drained away nearly all her energy. Still she could not remain at home. If she did not bring basket full of mud, then all her efforts would be useless. Silt and mud would lose its quality, if people walked on it. Not to speak about the rain. A shower or two, and the silt would flow back to the canal, out of reach.
It was quite late, she straightened her body to remove the inertia. She saw the soft golden light, pure and alloyed. It swept across the side of the canal..... she was filled with joy of the vast glory. But the joy was short lived.  Soon, after the morning ablutions she was filled with fear and anxiety. And all due to the small yellow beaked singing black bird. One for sorrow, they say. No, Labanga tried to laugh away such thoughts. Jatayu returned from the canal side. He asked Labanga for a cup of tea. Without it he could not shake off the indolence. These days he woke up early. When the morning air, sang among the leaves and buds covered with dew, and most of the people were blissfully asleep, Jatayu sat in the courtyard chanting the name of God.  This was new to Labanga. For in spite of his faith in God, she had never seen him prying.
There was no milk. And her father did not like tea without milk. But, he asked for lemon tea. Labanga was in a hurry to reach the sandbank. The pressure of work and the terrible heat had choked her energy and enthusiasm, to a great extent. Even, the strong and sturdy sought rest at intervals. She understood how difficult it was to manage everything, alone. Nonai was so small. He could not even carry the wicker basket.
For a while Labanga was lost in thought. She felt miserable to think there was no one to hold the umbrella over his head, to give him shelter and security. She was sick of the struggle with poverty and meanness.
Jatayu finished his tea and set off for Nonakhal. He told Labanga to stay back- he would scrape and collect mud.
‘But how? Your shops!’ – said Labanga
Jatayu laughed. It was a sad smile, full of contempt. Fate had been very hard on him.
Three tea stalls stood in a row. Babulal’s shop pulled the maximum crowd. People gathered there to read the daily newspaper as they sipped tea and chatted, and listened to music.
What about him? He did not earn ever five rupees. Still he went there and waited patiently. He felt sad for Labanga. She seemed to be crushed under domestic drudgery. She was skeletal and there was a drawn look in her eyes. And his heart melted.
‘Stay at home daughter I will go and scrape mud. You can bring it in the evening.
All right. I will complete the household chores. Then coat and smear my Noonbari. I will begin work from Thursday.’
Jatayu went out with the basket, scraper, spade and a meagre lunch.
Labanga also began her work. She had kept the mud covered under dry Palmyra leaves, to protect it from rain. Sometimes it rained in torrents. Labanga was scared of rains. It would very easily wash away the deposit and with it the means of sustenance and sense of fulfilment.
Labanga wondered if these was any similarity between her escape and that of the salts. She ran away from her in-law’s house, as she was ill-treated and reduced to a nonentity. Still, she could neither defy-Kalachand nor refuse to satisfy his physical desires, night after night, every night. And so remained Kalachand. Distant, and wrathful, but with raging desire. Her faith in life was shaken. Her soul felt dreary and lonely in a world devoid of all tenderness and imagination, wonder and emotion. She despised her position and could not remain there. Not even for food and shelter. But why should the salt flee?
Is it a crime to want to live, to courage and faith in spite of continued onslaughts of misfortune?
Labanga was till smearing her Noonbari with mud, when Kanthiram came. He felt the Noonbari was like the salters. The salters had to make a cavity, then cover it again. Only they knew what a difficult and tiresome job it was.
Labanga had cleared a spot in the garden and dug a hole for Noonbari. She spent a whole day. Yet so much was still to be done. In the evening Kanthiram brought a bamboo spout. Without it how will the salt water trickle down from one cavity to the other? He threw it at Labanga.
Here take this. Without the spout you cannot do anything. See from one small hole, salt water well ooze out and the oozing will gather in an empty pitcher. When it is brimful remove the spout.’
Kanthiram smiled and continued:
‘Remember as long as the Noonbari has colour, hue and appearance it will get appreciation and importance. And that too for only three months Falgun, Chaitra and Baishakh. During monsoon, Noonbari is washed away. It ceases to have particulars about its identity.’
Labangalistend quietly. Kanthiram was also quiet. He stared at her splendid luxuriance, so poignantly thrown at risk. Like a flower trembling and wide opened into the sun, she tempted him and was drawing him towards her.
Labanga said, ‘What are you looking at?’
Kanthiram replied, I have come to Nonakhal. I can see the powerful surge of water that will bear me far.’
In a low voice Labanga said, ‘I do not know what you mean.’
There was silence and coolness around. A rustle among the leaves, the air balmy and clear. There was a perfect balance in the atmosphere. Labanga’s flexible figure was an integral part of the scene.
Kanthiram could not take his eyes off from Labanga. He could almost feel the firmness and softness of her upright body as he looked at her. To him, Labanga seemed to be a Noonbari, so he had complete authority over it. An all-powerful passion brought them closer.
Labanga found to grossness, in him. She lay in his arms for a long time, and each felt peace in the other.
‘Labanga’ whispered Kanthiram. He knew the force of his desire to mingle with her, losing himself to find her, to find himself in her. There in the garden under the cloudless western sky, wavy and tinged with the radiant glory of the sun.On the wavy lair of green grass the two threw themselves. But before they had been carried away by the passional flow Labanga stood up slowly, filled with guilt, shame and pain.
Kanthiram did not try to stop her. He said:
‘You have to come back. The salt water trickles down, to merge itself with mud and salt is formed. I have that salt in my blood.’
Labanga collected herself and went away slowly. She decided to take a bath again, and then cook something. She only had a cup of tea.
Felna came in running, gasping for breath.
Her face was covered with beads of sweat. She looked pale and scared. Labanga stared back. She knew something was wrong. Felna could not keep quiet. With tears in her eyes she said:
‘Hurry up! Please! Nonai is drowned.’
‘What? Labanga cried, there was no strength left in her. Ever since she returned to her father’s house, Labanga began to weave her dreams around her son.
‘Come on. Let us go. I saw him struggling in the water-gasping. His little fists trying to hold on to something for support. Nobody in the crowd dared to jump in – everyone is scared of the whirlpools.’ She paused. Then looking at Labanga’s face striken with grief she said: ‘But Kanthiram is a brave man. Always ready to help others in distress. He jumped into the water. He has no fear.’
Labanga ran as if chased by mad dogs. Her wet sari prevented her from going faster. She was covered with gluey mud. Yet she ran. Leaving the dry woodland path, the fields, she came down the sloping sandbanks. She saw the water and her heart missed a beat.
Then a heart-rending cry, broke the silence as Labanga, the sorrowful mother called out again and again to her son ‘Nonai, Nonai re ... Nonai...’
People came running. They tried to control Labanga who was tumbling on the ground, crying and blaming herself. She knew, like all others knew, every year Nonakhal carried away someone or other, to quench its thirst. But why ‘Nonai’? O God! Why?’
Labanga sat there lamenting and beating her forehead. Then after what seemed to be an eternity, she saw as if in a dream, Kanthiram coming forward with Nonai in his arms. She ran forward with outstretched arms. Kanthiram put Nonai down on the wet sand.  Then with both hands he pressed Nonai’s stomach to bring out the salt-water. The little fellow lay unconscious. His whole body was cloaked with salt mud. Labanga threw herself on her son, people came closer, and their eyes fixed on her bare breast on which a teardrop sparkled. Kanthiram’s eyes warned her. Then he picked up Nonai and holding him high he started jumping. Everytime he did so, Nonai vomited water.
Jatayu came forward. He said:
‘Kanthi, give Nonai to me. I will see how much water is still there in his stomach.’
But Kanthiram refused to oblige. He said “
‘The water of Nonakhal is no longer pure. Let me drain out the dirt.’
Labanga sat still. Her eyes dry.

Chapter – 8
The unwanted guest at the Noonbari is the ghoga. It made the salt-water flow down so swiftly that it filled the pitcher within a fraction of a second. Like the other salters, Labanga was also careful to protect her Noonbari from the attack of the insect, as dangerous as the locust.
Labanga made two deep pits in the ground. The pits were separated by a thick wall. The first pit would be filled with mud and silt, and in the second an earthen pitcher. If the first pit was two feet deep, the depth of the second would have to be doubled. Or else how could the pitcher fit in there? And without a pitcher where could water fall. Labanga had a long argument with Kanthiram on this matter.
He said: ‘But why such an unequal match?’
‘If it is equal how will I place the pitcher? And if I don’t place it where will the water accumulate? It is not a child’s plaything.
Kanthiram gave up. Passing a hand through his dishevelled hair he said with a smile.
‘You have brains. You should have been a lawyer.’
The work was difficult and the time-consuming. Small, very small holes had to be made in the wall separating the two pits. Only then, could Labanga push in the bamboo pump out of which water would come out like spray and fill the pitcher.
The hard work of the first and second pit was difficult indeed. However hard work with its, strain and stress was necessary to bringforth something good. Labanga felt that to a certain extent her life was but so. She had given up herself wholly to Kalachand but he was not willing to stay with her. The unwritten law of society always favoured the other one. They were far better than the legally married one. If man desired to plunge headlong into the second, he would have to accuse the first, speak ill about her. Labanga no longer felt sad, she had taken it in her stride.
Labanga decided to fill the first pit with mud before placing the pitcher in the second. The slit and mid should be pressed in. This was the most important task. There should be no air between the layers. It was the happiest day in Labanga’s life. Poddarbabu the salt-merchant had come to meet her. He gave her an advance and promised to buy all the salt. He even said that he would pay her in cash. No credit. The money he would pay is less than the market rate. It is natural in the initial stages of business. And she would have to accept it. Poddarbabu said to her:
‘Buy all the pots and pans, the buckets and pitchers, spoons, well everything you need. Remember only one thing there should be no dark coating on the salt. Even if it is not milk-white it should match your complexion.’
Labanga laughed like a child. Right from her birth she had seen salters at work. She knew all the rules, the procedure and the tricks too. She assured him with twinkle in her eye: ‘No fear Babu. I will give you the best, though this is my first venture, still I will give you the best. I have taken great pains to remove the gravel; and saved it from insects.’
The merchant went back satisfied. Labanga was worried about the colour. These days only appearance mattered. A polish, a glitter, and the customer is pleased. 
Abala came in the evening. She said:
‘What is there to worry? He wants colour, so give him colour.’
Labanga stared at her friend and told her that she did not understand her meaning. She said to Abala:
‘It is very easy to talk. From where will I get the colour?Babu said, spotless white.’    
‘I will help you.’
‘How?’
‘Very easy. Go to Sahoo’s shop and get alum. Sprinkle the water. All the scum will vanish, leaving the salt spotless white.’
Thursday is an auspicious day. Labanga woke up earlier than usual. Today she would pour mud into her Noonbari. The salter had to be chaste. So Labanga was careful to see that there were no faults and failings. She took an early bath, wore a clean sari. The utensils were new. Jatayu had brought them from the market. About ten yards away from the NoonbariJatayu made an oven to boil the saltwater.
They could set the big vat on it with ease. The ladle was big enough too. Nothing that her father bought was of inferior quality. The advance was really helpful.
As Labanga stood by the Noonbari, her eyes fell on the cluster of trees at the corner of the garden. From the grass came flowing to her Kanthiram’s fervent breath- how childish she had been. How irresponsible! How could she give herself to Kanthiram so freely? She shuddered to think what would have happened if Kanthiram urged the warmth into intensity. She took her eyes away and a deep sigh came from the depth of her being. She became acutely aware of the flow of life, which manifested itself in everything. The human and the non-human constantly mixed and blended as so many different expressions of response without which there was discordance and pain. Perhaps this was the reason that made her leave her husband. 
Labanga threw her basket aside and sat down. She wiped the beads of perspiration with her hand. She was tired. Carrying five baskets full of mud was no joke. But the pit was still not full. She stood up but Jatayu who had been watching came and examined the pit with an expert’s eye. He said to her, shaking his head:
‘The pit can hold six basketful mud. You have already poured five basket. So stop. Won’t you keep any place for water?’
Labanga smiled, a foolish smile: the smile lingered on her lips as she sat down again. Her father no longer harboured anger and resentment. She was thankful for his help and support. Without the experience and wisdom of the aged no good work can be completed. After a while, Labanga stood up, she looked at the pit, and again it symbolized hope and confidence. She shook off her tiredness and went forward with a bucket to bring water.
It was decided that Nonai would pour water, for Jatayu shrank back in fear. His touch would ruin all the efforts, wash away all hopes for a better future.
Jatayu bent down to see the still water, carefully. If the dreaded insect had made its place in the mud then the water would move in circular motion, mud would slide down into the pitcher. After, sometime he stood up straight, satisfied. He said to Labanga:
‘You have stuffed it well, daughter. Within half an hour the water will trickle down. Place the pitcher carefully.’
Then the father and daughter sat there watching, with expectant eyes. Water came in drops through the pump. Labanga tasted a drop and said happily.’
‘Father, this is full of salt!’
Jatayu smiled in pleasure. It was for this reason that his village is like paradise to him.
Continuous drops of water fell into the pitcher. The sound was so comforting, so enchanting! Her eyes become hazy.
Nonai sat in the garden guarding the Noonbari from the dogs. They would come sniffing and then make the place dirty. It was nearly afternoon. The smell of salt, spread over the garden.
Labanga went indoors. She could not afford to sit in the garden listening to the sound of water falling into the pitcher. There was work waiting. She decided to cook something nice. But the very next moment Nonai called out to her, in fear. The water was moving in circles, it meant only one thing ghoga! Labanga bent down to see. Yes, Nonai was right. The mud was going down. She had to stop it. She ran to bring a basket full of mud. She had to carry quite a few baskets to get the water back to the normal position. She heaved a sigh of relief and was about to go back to her cooking. When her eyes fell on a figure walking under the shade of the trees. Labanga turned pale. She called out to Nonai who came running. He stared at her panic-stricken face as she pulled him close and began walking towards their house. Nonai was surprised to see this change in his mother. He wanted to go back to his work of guarding the Noonbari. But Labanga simply refused to listen. She dragged him along. Then she pushed him inside a room and locked it from outside telling him:
‘Just keep quiet. If anyone calls out to you, don’t reply. The kidnapper is coming.
Nonai was scared. He asked in a low voice,
‘If he carries you away?’
‘Stop.’
The kidnapper came up to their courtyard. Nonai could hear him walking around. Labanga saw him through the little window. She stood there holding Nonai’s hand writhing under excruciating pain, as tears flowed down her cheeks.
Nonai said,
‘Don’t cry. I feel sad when you cry.’ The kidnapper looked at the closed door. He came up and knocked:
‘Nonai’s mother, open the door. I have come to take you back. Open the door.’ 

Chapter – 9
Labanga was aghast. Her heart was bitter because she had loved him. She knew too well that Kalachand did not come to take her back. There was no change in him. He spoke with the same frown on his face with his eyebrows pulled close together. 
Jatayu too, did not pay much attention to him. Labanga said:
‘You have married that businessman’s daughter. If you take me back, what will happen to her? Will you send her away?
Kalachand could not reply, He understood Labanga was not willing to stay with his co-wife. But did it matter? He came for his son, not for Labanga. Why would he take Labanga back?He was not such a fool. He had a motor cycle, he wore fashionable clothes, ate good, delicious food, and went to cinema. His peevish mother had also quietened down. And all for his second wife. Why should he uproot the foundation on which his secured future rested? No, he had no intention returning with Labanga. It was his son Nonai. He came for him, his own flesh and blood.
His second wife could not bear children, not any more. The two untimely abortions during her unmarried days paved the way for this sad situation. So, Kalachand wanted Nonai back. Such was the agreement between him and his wife. But he could not reveal his intentions, at least, not to his father-in-law. Labanga however saw through his plans.
She stood face to face with the cruel deceitful man who tried in vain to hide his true colours behind the mask of sorrow. But the revelation was too shocking for Labanga. 
Never before did she feel so humiliated, so dreary and dejected. The flower of hope that she had tending carefully, withered away. The feeling of loneliness was so intense and sharp that she did not have adequate words to describe it. For then, she would have to spread out herself. No, she would never do that. She remained absolutely calm even when Kalachand feigned false emotions.
‘Come back home, I have come to take you. Without you everything is so dull and empty.’
His words did not move Labanga. Not the least. She shook off his words with the same determination she tilted the pitcher away to drain away the turbid water. It was not difficult, for his words did not have much substance.
Kalachand was amazed to see Labanga’s calm and composed face. It seemed to him, that to her the past was a closed chapter. He felt she had almost discarded him. And she wanted him to go away. But, the work which necessitated his coming was still not over. He tried to assert himself, yet there was a diminishing in his self-assurance. He told Labanga:
‘If you do not wish to return, let Nonai come back to me. I will get him admitted to school. Don’t you want to see him established in life? To be a support in our old age?’
Jatayu wanted Nonai to go away with his father. They were too poor to afford him education. There were also so many difficulties and problems in bringing up a child. But he did not say anything. Labanga’s defiant eyes betrayed a proud temper. She had conditioned herself and was totally unyielding thereafter.
Kalachand went away but not before he abused Labanga.
Since then Labanga had been working at her Noonbari. She sat there beside the oven, boiling the water, straining it. And all the while thinking.
Labanga knew Kalachand would come, at least once. But she never thought that he would be so coarse and vulgar, so quarrelsome. Once again she was in the grip of an intense anguish.
Nonai was happy to see his father after a long time. He sat on his lap playing with his fingers. But his mother’s stern look and harsh words made him leave the place. Kalachand tried his best to make amends for his previous misconducts. He brought pair of trousers for Nonai and a sari for Labanga. Labanga did not look at it. Why would she? It was a sin to touch it.
Saltwater is sticky and juicy. The water in salt dried up very quickly. Labanga scraped it and tied it in a piece of cloth.
Then she placed the bundle on the dying embers. The fire smouldering under ashes would dry the salt within a few minutes.
Standing there, by the side of the heap of ashes, Labanga felt that Kalachand’s nature resembled the ash heap that sucked the water completely. Kalachand had sucked all the flavour that her flexible body had, then he threw her out. His uncouth manner left bad memories. But Labanga refused to be suppressed. She diverted her intensity to learning and working so that she would be respected. She did not wish to see her efforts wasted.
It was evening. The deepening twilight cast a glimmer over everything. The clouds above the setting sun began to glow with a golden light. The sky, the land, the water took a golden hue. Gradually the light became dimmer. The golden ball sank behind the treetops. There was peace and tranquillity. The soft gentle breeze that blew from the side of the canal was cool and refreshing.  Women were busy with evening chores. From native houses came flowing the sounds of conch.
But Labanga could not admire the view. Kalachand’s coarse and vulgar words kept coming back, it disturbed her immensely. She sat there like a statue, worn out by the hard work and the insulting words of her husband.
‘I know why you will not return. You are Kanthiram’s kept. You cannot live without him. Noonbari is just an excuse. You sit there, making a show of being morally superior, at dressed waiting for him to take you.’
‘Stop. Don’t utter the sinful words again. He saved your son. He is my God. Don’t accuse him of what he has not done. Nonai is alive only for him.’
Labanga’s word flayed his soul. His behaviour resembled that of a wounded animal.
A furious storm rose in him and his hands quivered murderously.
‘You whore, you cannot fool me. I know you are in love with Kanthiram, that gallant womanizer. It is for him you roam about all alone. You visit the sandback.’
His eyes glowed and he continued:
‘I don’t eat leftover food. Even if you begged me to take you along. I would have kicked you like a dog.’    
Labanga stood still. She would never forgive him. She decided she would fight a constant battle against poverty and shield her son from the ugliness of life. Her Noonbari would help her. Labanga depended on it. She loved it. At night she dreamt about it. The dream thrilled her and filled her with delight. The future did not seem so bleak any more. 
Though it was late Labanga went to Poddar’s husking machine. Jatayu told her not to go as it had been a tiring day. But Labanga paid no heed to her father’s words. For if she remained at home, Kalachand’s words would torture her and she would feel weak. What mattered to Labanga was strength of mind. If she lost it, she would be strangled by the evil system of society. She undersood her responsibilities and had no intention of shirking from it. So she went. Carrying the sack of grain she walked on steadily. She was not tired. She would never speak about her pain and humiliation to anyone.
It was late when she returned. Darkness had set in. Labanga could see all the trees and hedge rows draped in a dark shade of green, the curl of smoke coming out from the poor huts. She hurried. She had to cook, and Nonai must be hungry. Jatayu had gone to the riverside as usual for fish. At this time of the year the inebraiation of the sweetwater fish made them take in the bait easily. So almost every night Jatayu came back with varieties of fish.
Opening the wicket gate Labanga called out to her son,
‘Nonai, Nonai. Give me a glass of water – I am too tired. When will you grow up? When will you ease me from this burden?’
Labanga stopped muttering. The room was empty. She looked around.
She had told him to guard the Noonbari. Where was he? Naughty and mischievous Nonai could not remain in a place for a long time. The anxious mother kept the sack on the verandah and went out to the garden. She saw the nighthawk circling, silently in the starlit sky. But where was Nonai? Muttering to herself, Labanga was suddenly seized with a nameless fear. She called out to him again: ‘Nonai, Nonai ...!’ The silence of the night was shattered by her shrill, piercing call that spread far. Gradually the sound died away. Labanga stood there, as the silence rolled back and engulfed the whole place again.
The garden lit up with the faint moonlight, filled her with sense of desolation. It was too much to endure. Labanga ran to sandbank. From there to there burning ghat, then tea stalls. Finally to the old banyan tree. But no, her son was nowhere.
Labanga met NetaiSantra on her way back. He looked at her long hair irregular breath the curve of her shoulders, her swollen breast, and it made him passionate.
He said to her:
‘You look so tired. Come, I will see you home.’
The fatigue of the whole day had made her very feeble and she could not speak. A tear or two trickled down her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry. Come with me to the sandbank. I will give you twenty rupees.’

Chapter – 10 
Jatayu returned alone. Nonai had refused to come back. He was happy with his new mother. She gave him rice and fish everyday. She bought him different coloured kites and so many other playthings. She was so pretty. No, he would not leave her and come back to Nonakhal.
Labanga could not control herself. She could not stop her tears. 
Jatayu did not know what to do. Labanga’s tear stained face brought tears to his eyes. He said :
‘Don’t cry, daughter. I cannot bear to see you crumble down like this.’
‘How will I live father ? What will I live for ?Jatayu dropped his eyes. Labanga’s lost look, her pale and wan face and above all the shadow of defeat that surrounded her, reminded Jatayu for the hundredth time, how helpless he was. He looked around with bloodshot eyes. His limbs trembled in anger, humiliation and pain.
Jatayu never imaged that he would be insulted to such an extent at his son-in-law’s house. He understood why Labanga had come back. No one could live with such cruelty. He longed to teach Kalachand a lesson, but the longing only reminded him of his helplessness and poverty ; of Kalachand’s cool and disdainful behaviour.
Jatayu was rudely pushed out by his son-in-law:
‘Nonai is my son-I have brought him home. Who are you to interfere ? You have given birth to a dirty woman, a whore. Go serve her for the rest of your life. If you come here the second time, I will break your bones. My name is Kalachand. Remember, I maintain cordial relation with the police. They will stand by me. Always.’
Jatayu did not know where they hid his grandson. He felt tired, not so much from walking as from the insulting behaviour. He returned, tired and exhausted. His old limbs ached, his head reeled. He knew he would not be able to endure the tension and the pain. Yet he had gone, for his daughter’s sake.
Labanga came and sat beside him. She said :
‘Father, I don’t believe my son said all this.’ She burst into tears again.
‘I will not be able to live without him. My husband deserted me, I endured it. But if my son abandons me where will I go ? O Father, tell me where will I go ?’
It was too much for Jatayu to bear. Just to soothe his aggrieved soul he went out for a stroll. Labanga sat in the courtyard, lonely and cursing herself for having gone to work, leaving Nonai alone.
When she returned Nonai was nowhere to be seen. She never thought that Kalachand would come on the sly and take away Noani. She came to know about it from old Narahari who had seen Kalachand and Nonai. He said he never realized then that Kalachand was a thief and a coward.
Since then the light in her eyes had waned. She refused food and water. She forgot that her father was helpless. Who would cook for him if she did not ?
Abala came in the morning. She tried to console her, to make her understand that life is under no obligation to give all that she wanted. It was time she accepted her lot. There was nothing else to do. She should not cry and pine away. The father and son were together. They belonged to each other. Labanga refused to understand. She asked if she would not bring him up with care and love. 
Wiping her tears she said to her friend:
‘How can you be so hard-hearted? I cannot endure the separation any more. I live by him.’ Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, rolled down her cheeks and broke out in torrents. There was something heart-rending about her cry. Her anguish seemed to be timeless, to be a thing of all ages. Abala sat looking at her in utter amazement.
During meals Jatayu tried to console her. He was sure that Nonai would come back. Nothing, not even the good food will be able to keep him there. The bond between the mother and son is invisible. His words did not reassure Labanga. She looked around vacantly and sighed. Jatayu spoke up again, in a different tone.
‘After all your son is safe with his father. Like you. I do not think your mother frets and worries.’
Labanga remained motionless. She was pale and her face that used to be perfectly confident was lined with conflict and despair. Noonbari did not give even a single drop of water. The fault however was Labanga’s. Every time she filled in mud and poured water, it flowed down and slime and gluey mud filled the pitcher. Salt could not be made from it.
Poddarbabu had sent his servant a number of times. His truck would move out with the salt. Labanga should meet him. She was not in a mood to meet him but there was no other way out. Salt was ready. If she did not give it then it would be a double loss for her. Labanga’s will to live urged her to hold the reins again. It made her struggle against all odds. She took up her incomplete work as a sort of cure for her soul – bruised and crushed by Kalachand, and walked towards her Noonbari. But every time she picked up the sack she remembered Nonai and her eyes filled with tears. Words failed her and she looked at the sacks, full of salt.
A sense of emptiness overwhelmed her. Then under the crimson glory of the sky and the blowing clouds at sunset, she saw her Noonbari in a new light. It was a living fabric of truth that held out a hope to her. And she took a vow. She would save herself from doom and destruction. And then and there she decided to go.
It was quite late, when Labanga finally finished her calculations. Nearly twenty-five people were present at Poddarbabu’s house and she was the last.
Poddarbabu was a rich man. The salt trade fetched him wealth. He had two double-storied buildings, a television, and acres of land. In the month of Baishakh, the thickness of the saltwater increased.
Poddarbabu had only to bring buckets full of water and empty it on the cemented floor. The heat and fire of the month would soon dry up the water, and the salt remained. But there was a vast difference in the taste.
Poddarbabu’s cashier cleared her dues. He did not give dirty soiled notes, but all coins. It produced a musical sound as she walked. There was such a magical power in the sound that all traces of sorrow and uncertainty vanished. Labanga suddenly felt very light. She looked up to see the sky, studded with stars and obstructed from view by patchy shades of the thick foliage of tress overhead. The glow worms danced in the wayside bushes. She could hear the rush and roar of the water. She remembered the whirlpools as she stood in the semipartial darkness. NetaiSantra had stopped her at that very spot, trying to entangle her in his trap. God saved her that day. The whole area was filled with a fleshy rotten smell. She held the corner of her sari to her nose and tried to cross the spot. But she stopped dead in the track. There were four fierce looking dogs, tearing the body of a dead calf. What harassment! She could not take the roundabout way, from the side of the sandbank. It was not safe. Labanga picked up a dry twig and threw it at the dogs. The next moment she ran for her life but the sari twined itself around her leg and she nearly fell down. The dogs came forward snarling. Labanga felt it was Kalachand who was running after her with his gross animality to smother the light of her life. She mustered up all her courage. She would not run away, not any more. She brandished the corner fold of her sari to stop the vicious, wild Kalachand once and for ever. The dogs stepped back by this unexpected attack, but pounced upon her again.
Labanga twisted and turned in pain. But before she tumbled down, she picked up a brick. The pain and blood could not subdue her. She lay in a pool of blood, yet determined to finish the animal with a blow. 

Chapter – 11
Labangareturned with difficulty. Then she cauterized herself. It was necessary, because a slight burn would wash away the poison. Jatayu brought a sorcerer. He drew lines with a chalk, placed stones and pebbles on it and then declared there is nothing to fear.
Kanthiram refused to accept the verdict. He forced Labanga to go with him to the hospital. They would consult the doctors and do as they were advised. He said firmly that he did not believe the occult methods and incantations of enchantment.
Labanga had to agree. Even Jatayu felt she should go. He said:
‘Go, daughter. I will guard your Noonbari. It is better to be careful.’
Labanga who had been lamenting her lot, could not resist any more and wept bitterly. Kanthiram tried to dispel her fears. In the deepening twilight near the struggling fence, they stood. His hands closed over hers, very close and his eyes watched her. She felt happy and proud, her spirit leapt to life. Labanga could not sleep that night with the pain and fever. She was half aware of his passion. She felt Kanthiram was so much like the diver bird cormorant that dived into the rushing water of Nonakhal. Kanthiram was diving into the depths of her being. What was he trying to salvage?
She trembled and glowed inwardly, yet she was restless. She was aware of a strange influence entering her life. A part of her stream was flowing towards Kanthiram. She understood that all her love and affection, all her hope for the future would henceforth revolve around him. She could not bear to live away from him. Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her. But strangely enough the young man, handsome with a slender figure, a reservoir of immense energy and dishevelled hair reminded her of her husband. In a moment the scene changed. Kalachand’s immensity of passion, almost like a flame of pain shook her violently. She remembered how, after her first physical contact with him her whole body quivered with sensations, how in the stillness of the night they met in a long whole kiss that released flood of passion. Their bodies sealed and annealed.
Labanga went to the hospital for seven days, to take injection. Just as the water-birds flew to the sandbank to the canal and the strait, a hushed, furtive current pulled her to the shade of the long line of palm trees. From there she and Kanthiram took the short cut to the hospital. Kanthiram, however did not appreciate this hide and seek. But, this precaution was important. Labanga knew too well, how willingly the scandal-mongers of the village could wag their tongues, in such matters.
Labanga and Kanthiram enjoyed the trip to the town immensely. Labanga sat on the carrier, rapt, glowing, blinded with, a new light. Kanthiram cycled carefully, ever alert. They had so much to say to each other.
Kanthiram sped on. There were drops of perspiration on his forehead. The wind raised a cloud of dust. Labanga’s bangles and sari were marked with it. It was a typical summer day. Rough and dry. The fields were dotted brown by the date trees that were clothed in red. Here and there were patches of til trees, planted in straight near rows, the rough leaves basking in the amorous kiss of the morning sun. They passed the scattered tufts of grass, the thatched houses, the harvest, heaped and piled in the courtyard, so well swabbed that it smooth brightness shone like a sheet of polished metal. The water of the deep tubewells flowed on, leaving patches of the earth moist. A soothing smell from the dry earth reached Labanga. It revived hope and happiness. 
In a soft caressing voice Kanthiram said:
‘Anything wrong Labanga?’
No one, but the overarching blue dome, the nearly dry Nonakhal, the tuft of grass knew, what was wrong with her. Labanga was dying. She could no longer endure the recurrence of love and conflict, the alternating rhythm of life. She sought, yes, she sought a shelter. She stared enviously at the poor houses at a distance, the women working freely in the courtyard, giving suck to their babies. It made her unhappy and an agonized cry came from the very depth of her soul.
‘Stop! Please stop! I need some water, please.’
Kanthiram stopped. Labanga got down and looked around for water. The beauty of the summer morn overcame her. She saw the line of bullock carts, the dust rising from the hot road way, marked the dancing of leaves in the breeze and she lapsed into silence. Kanthiram shook her pointing to the clear water of the pond. Labanga went down the cobbled steps. The white water-lilies like snow at the corner of the stream, the small ripples shining in the sun filled her with pleasure. The cool water quenched her thirst. They set out again. The hospital was still far. She thought of her Noonbari and felt restless. She wanted to go back as soon as possible. It was her Noonbari that saved her from crushing down into nothingness, from being scattered into fragments.
Already the atmosphere was heavy. Kanthiram went by the zig-zig path that lay between the fields and meadows. The day was clear and cloudless. Labanga saw the pure white folds of the bright blue sky, but even such beauty could not soothe her troubled spirit.  Her continued mental distress was shattering her. The smell from Kanthiram’s body was intoxicating. His physical charms attracted her, as the feel of his body excited her. What would she do?
Allow herself to be carried far, by the high tide of passion. Her heart and body burnt and she wanted to die. Even, at her father-in-law’s house she had not known such pain.
Labanga lay on a wooden bench. She but her lip in pain, as the nurse pushed the sharp needle. Kanthiram waited outside. Earth’s hot breathe seemed to brush against his skin. He felt tired.
The nurse came out and told kanthiram to go inside. He did. His eyes fell on Labanga lying still moaning in pain.
They had lunch, wandered around for some time and then decided it was time to return. They passed over the fields and forests so lovely with their sights and sounds. Silence reigned everywhere. There in the midst of nature, Kanthiram suddenly turned around. The love, which lay buried in him, overpowered him. The hustle and bustle of the world did not matter. It was as if, they wished to forget all rules, all codes of life. Labanga let go her hold on herself. He wanted to mingle with her, loosing himself to find her, to find himself in her. Everything past was forgotten and a new life was discovered. Labanga lay there still. Kanthiram bent down to lift her up but she pulled him closer. He was confused. He saw the vermillion spot on her forehead smudged, the torn silver chain gathered on her breast. As Labanga turned and tried to get up the chain fell down on the grass. She stared at it and relapsed into a sort of sombre exclusion. Her restive soul, sought in vain, a place, a niche in some part of her sensuous body, to keep her silver chain.

Chapter – 12
Labanga was crestfallen. She did not know what to do. She could feel the presence of a life. As she glanced towards the quay she saw a naked child playing. If it only he slipped and fell, it would be washed away Labanga closed her eyes in fear and pain. She passed her hand over her stomach. She would destroy it, no matter how difficult and painful it might be. 
For the past few days Labanga could feel the presence of another life within her. She became certain of it, the day when the sour tasting pickle made her vomit, her father was not there, for his matured eyes would have missed nothing. In an instant he would have known the matter, though for last three months she had been hiding it within herself. The other day as her head reeled. Abala, seeing her pale wan face was surprised. She had said jokingly:
‘Why Labanga? What is the matter?’
Labanga had not shared her secrets with Abala, she could not. She remained silent and mysterious as the hour of the dusk. But for how long?
Labanga had even gone to Kanthiram’s house. His mother was not pleased to see her, but she enquired of her father and son. Labanga came to know that Kanthiram had gone to the Bada areas. He would return after a month. What would Labanga do? She could not speak out her grief. People would spit at her and shun her company. She could not commit suicide, she was too scared. And she could not leave the beautiful world.
Even her father would turn his face away if he came to know about her condition. All doors were closed. She was helpless. She could not, like a bird swoop in joy. Labanga had nobody to blame except herself. She should have been a bit more reserved. She could not control her physical urge and passion for Kanthiram. It was humanly impossible to continue to drag on the cordial friendly relation with him, in which the body had no share.
She could not do, what Abala did. After all it was not its fault. Rather it was the evidence of their profound and intense sentiments, so why would she think differently?
Poddarbabu, however, resented the delay in Labanga’s work. He needed salt. If only he could meet the supply and demand, then before long the business would flourish. His messengers reminded Labanga that the season for salt was at its end.
Labanga, in spite of her mental turmoil had not allowed weeds and grass to grow in and around her Noonbari. She watched it with alert eyes. Yet an uninterrupted feeling of being torn away was slowly overpowering her. It was sheer agony to go to the sandbank. The leaves that fell on the water and sank into the water, the wind that blew over the brown coloured lands and the birds that flew over the water left her lost in thought.
Labanga shook off her fear and doubt. Kanthiram was her strength. All her life was directed by her awareness of him, her wakefulness to his being. She wanted to meet him, she longed for one touch of warmth, of assurance from him. For her eternal craving was to be loved. Kanthiram had come to meet her before he left. Sitting in the courtyard flute in hand, he said:
‘Labanga, you are dearer to me than you feel. Even when I am not here, you will find me. Don’t feel sad to go to the sandbank. You will hear the music of flute in the breeze, the rustle of the leaves will tell you I am well.’ Kanthiram’s words brought tears to her eyes. She came out with him, lantern in hand. Near the throng of the neem trees, Kanthiram held her in a long and tight embrace.
Night has its own beauty, its own fragrance. Everything was submerged in the half light, and everything seemed to echo. The dusty road with its scent laden air made Labanga remain in his arms with a sense of luxury. Labanga said after sometime in a low voice:
‘I think we should be more careful. What if we fall into my trouble?’
‘Troubles are a part of life Labanga. We will tackle it.’
Kanthiram’s voice shook with emotion. Labanga remained still, overwhelmed by its intensity. It roused warmth in her and filled her with a strange feeling.
The night air, moaning in the water of Nonakhal made her realize once again what separation meant. And when the wind fell silent she was overpowered by the sudden silence.
Labanga came back and looked at her reflection in the mirror, critically. The freshness of her cheeks was back, she looked like a fresh tree which had suddenly come back to life. In the light of vigour and vitality she seemed to be the queen of Nonakhal. The healthy spot that glowed on her cheeks made her forget her Noonbari, her poverty and even her troubles. The physical urge and passion that had been beating up like fire in her veins cooled down. She did not consider herself an untouchable, she was happy in showers of sunshine.
Labanga neither respected nor loved the people of Nonakhal. Her life revolved around Kanthiram. He had given her a new and deeper freedom, something she had always yearned for. She was not ashamed. She did not deny the ebb and tide of sensual warmth that gave her pleasure and gratification. She was Nonai’s mother, Kalachand’s wife. But she had no need of the social status that they had given her. Such prestige and social values are useless. She did not accept the norms set down by a society and its custodians of law that failed to give protection to young girls. She wanted to teach them that even girls could speak up against the male who asserted their superiority by exercising their physical strength. Netai Santra was mad with desire for her, but all his money and power failed. Labanga hated him. The young village Chief was no different. He frightened her with his terrible laugh which was unnatural and ghostly like a laugh in hell. Labanga shrank  from any physical contact with either of them. There arose a feeling of insecurity and fear in her heart.
They should be thrown out as waste, before they did any harm. They were mistaken if they thought she was a despairing soul that allowed itself to be drifted in any direction, severed from its living will.
Kanthiram was as precious as the silt and mud that contained salt; the mud for which the villagers waited eagerly, for it was the means of their sustenance. He was not like the slime that needed to be scraped off.
Kanthiram was a part of the landscape, rooted in the soil. His very prosaicness was her anchor. It was to him that she had offered herself, to melt and blend. Labanga did not sink in her own esteem. She was not loaded with self-guilt. Her love that gave her moments of happiness gave her confidence too. This society had given her a social prestige. In return it wanted to curb her wishes and desires. The existing system that could not give her a square meal had no right to impose restrictions. To Labanga, the values of life and environment changed drastically. She was determined to prove that even a cast away like her had an existence of its own. That existence not only felt the flame running in her veins, but sought gratification too. Labanga could not quite disapprove of what Abala did. Perhaps that was only natural. Netai Santra would never acknowledge her socially. No one in the village would advise him to marry Abala. The wretched girl would spend her youth in shame of unlicensed sensual pleasures. Much against her will she would undergo abortions. Then again she would blossom into beauty only to throw away respectability to give the master physical gratification. The eternal cycle of time would witness the drama of pleasure and pain. And of sin.
Labanga did not wish to be another Abala, though the situation and circumstances were very much the same outwardly. She always looked down upon those who committed suicide. Though her mind was drugged with weariness and anxiety, she considered herself sincere and faithful in her love for Kanthiram. If she was pure at heart, scandal could do no harm. Nonakhal had taught her this lesson. The mud and clay of Nonakhal was different from that of the pond. The seed of creativity was hidden in the soil of Nonakhal.
In the stagnant water of the pond there was no sign of creativity or of life. It was rotten and foul smelling.
Labanga stood by the quay. The beauty of the sloping sandbank, the glorious colours of the sunset filled the area with peace and tranquillity. The peace was like balm to her anxious heart. At this time there was a rush at the sandbank side. Everybody was afraid of the dark. Labanga looked at the zigzag path that went through the woods, the gloomy vastness and felt distressed. But she shook off this feeling quite soon. Labanga knew very soon Kanthiram would come, down the brow of the hill, across the field, he would come whistling. His presence would wipe away the chilling darkness of her heart. Surely he would come. Monsoon was not too far off.
Kanthiram came in the deepening twilight. He looked tired. Labanga was awakened by the knock at the door. She saw him, her dear one, the perfection of masculine beauty. He had gone to earn a livelihood while she remained, guarding and watching everything with alert eyes. His face was lined with strain of journey, yet it sparkled in the light of the moon. His eyes shone in the soft silver light.
Forgetting everything, Labanga ran towards him. And then they were in each other’s arms, trying to fill up void that was created due to the long separation. Slowly, Kanthiram freed himself to look at Labanga. He felt he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. On the face of earth there was nothing equal to her eyes, sparking with love, the lotuslike shoulders, the shapely chin and throat. His blood beat up waves of desire in his veins, and he pulled her close. And then gradually as he began to flow towards her, to mingle with her, Labanga summoned up all her courage to speak to Kanthiram. His grasp relaxed. Young and inflammable Kanthiram sat there bewildered.
After sometime he said:
‘What are we to do?’
Labanga lay still. They were both crushed and silent; they dare not see each other, recognize each other.
Then Kanthiram recovered. With a great passionate effort of will he took her in his arms, and covered her with kisses. Labanga raised her face to his and for a moment she was dizzy. Kanthiram said:
‘Don’t worry. We will go to town tomorrow. I know a doctor. I will give him money and he will arrange everything. Is this a problem today?
‘No ___o___o’, Labanga shrieked in pain and fear. And pushed him away. Kanthiram was amazed.
‘I am not Abala, Kanthida, and if you think so, you are mistaken!’
Then she wrapped her sari around her body and stood up straight. It was as if she wanted to flee from this place, so polluted by his breath. The, she spoke again:
‘Don’t look at me with your sinful eyes. So long there was no sin, no lust in you in your touch. You do not belong to me, you are like the mud that needs to be scrapped off and thrown out from the Noonbari.’
Kanthiram tried to reach her but Labanga stepped back in hatred:
‘No, don’t touch me. There is sin in your touch.’ Then she ran towards the sandbank.
Kanthiram called out to her again and again. When finally he met her, she was crying as if her heart would break. Kanthiram placed his hand on her head and said softly:
‘Don’t be childish. In time of trouble, it is best to remain cool and calm.’
‘What danger, what trouble,’ hissed Labanga.
‘The newcomer is not a thorn, not poison. It is our own our flesh and blood. You can hurt me, but not our child.’
Kanthiram said,
‘Alright, let him come. But not here, elsewhere. I will not allow our reputation to be soiled.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘We will leave Nonakhal.’
‘But where? Everywhere it is the same.’
‘We will go to Kolkata. I have a friend there. Then I will begin working in a theatrical party.’
‘My Noonbari! My Nonai.’
Kanthiram had no words for the question that came from the very depth of her being.

Chapter – 13
High tide flooded Nonakhal on the night of full moon. Labanga and Kanthiram decided to leave the village that night. They would take the bus from the local market to the district town from there, they would board the train. Then a life of freedom, of happiness and the world would be changed for both of them.
Labanga prepared herself for it. She poured all her love and care on her old crippled father. She wondered who would look after him and her Noonbari.
Noonbari carried with it a rich aura of emotions and associations. Labanga could not check her tears every time, she went near it. Never before she had thought of her comfort and happiness, never taken such a selfish decision. When Kanthiram suggested elopement, it saddened her for it meant separation again- separation from her father, from Nonakhal from every loved spot that her infancy knew. But her sorrow was shortlived the next moment the fountain of happiness flowed in the innermost recess of her mind – now falling, now rising, but persistent ever.
Apart from her Noonbari, Labanga had no other support. She tried to fill up the void in her life by agreeing to Kanthiram’s suggestion.
Kalachand lived a different life. His happiness was complete for Nonai was with him. If he could live happily, then why couldn’t she begin anew? If the guardians of morality did not attach any blame to a man who enjoyed intimacy with two, three, even more women, then why should chastity be the yardstick to judge a woman? Indeed a woman’s chastity is man’s own invention. Labanga felt she had done nothing wrong. She had only fulfilled a natural law. She would not bow and bend low before the verdict of the society and mar her motherhood, her power of enjoying and spreading love. The scale of justice must be equal, otherwise the day is not far off when the poison of differentiation would lose its life saving quality, and water would be defiled. Nonai’s absence was partly responsible for Labanga’s willing submission to Kanthiram’s decision. Had he been with her, and then perhaps she could not have welcomed the decision so eagerly. She felt that her son had paved the way for her new beginning. 
Labanga went to the burning ghat before leaving. It was there that the mortal remains of her mother turned to ashes. Then it mingled with the flowing water of Nonakhal to flow on to the sea. This was an example of her mother’s purity of spirit and intention. Labanga also desired such a happy and decent end but that was not to be. It was not that Labanga had no complaints against life or a feeling of resentment at injustice. Tears rolled down her cheeks and lingered in her eyes as she dipped her hand in the water. She splashed the cold water on her face and then went back to their poor hut. Jatayu was seriously ill. The village doctor did not assure Labanga of his recovery. Rather he told her that his end was near, adding, that he would try his best. 
Jatayu lay on his bed, drifting towards death. Labanga nursed him untiringly. He refused food, and spoke only of his fear and her future. It weakened her and shook the very foundation of her faith. She could not think beyond that fact that she would have to cling to a prop uniform. Labanga went to meet Abala in the evening. Her dear friend was not at home, she sat chatting with her mother who was pleased to see Labanga after a long time. With a smile she said, ‘you look better these days. There is healthy glow on your face.’ Labanga, in fear, saw herself on the sly and pulled her sari tightly, forcing a grin. She replied. ‘There is nothing much to do these days. That is why I have put on weight. I only look after my Noonbari. Father manages the rest of the work.’
Sighing deeply Abala’s mother said:
‘Noonbari makes one a king, the other a beggar. It suited you, it fetched you money. But why don’t you go to the local market, you will get more profit, double the profit. Poddar is a cheat. He robs the poor of their dues. His money will drain out like salt. If I am alive I will see it, or else you girls will.’ Chopping betel nuts she continued.
‘Noonbari did not suit us. It brought in only curse and endless misfortunes. Abala’s father destroyed it. The salt I make lasts me throughout the year.’ The new pot had small holes like a sieve. Abala’s mother spread a thick layer of ash on it. Then she poured mud. She feared if she poured water directly then a hole might help the mud to slip down. She could not hide her irritation as she said. ‘Since morning I have been working. Even then I did not get a bowl full. Abala said she would boil the water. She knows the art of making white salt. It is better than yours. Take a handful before going. 
‘Labanga waited for a time but she did not meet Abala. She returned with a choking throat, her eyes full of tears, her voice sinking. She had hoped to spend some time with her childhood friend before she left forever. May be it was good that they did not meet. If Abala doubted anything she would not hesitate to check. Back home. Labanga could not concentrate on her work. Kanthiram would wait for her on the quay. When her father fell asleep, she would pull the doors and go to Kanthiram. Labanga sat watching the stars appear one by one. It was a beautiful moonlit night. The moon stood silent and serene in the sky as though watching the earth and its inmates. The leaves were shining and the winds seemed to be singing. Labanga sat in rapturous wonderment. She had never before seen such beauty, such glories of life. But she could not enjoy the lovely night though her sorrows were coming to an end. The silver rays made her acutely aware of her thoughts and decision, and that she was nothing herself. 
Kanthiram called out to her, the moment she reached. Labanga went forward cautiously. She did not look up meet his eyes. Instead, in a voice barely audible she said, ‘I am feeling sad. And guilty. It is a painful realization that I have to rip myself away from Nonakhal, from my father. While coming I saw mosquitoes biting him. But he cannot feel it.’ ‘I understand, Labanga. I bought medicine to last my mother ten days. And then, I don’t know. Mother wanted only thing, that I perform her last rites. But her wish will not be fulfilled.’ Kanthiram’s voice shook with emotion. Observing him closely Labanga felt she was too selfish, too degrading. Then Kanthiram said. ‘Come on, why are we waiting? Let’s push off the boat. How long will it be, before the high tide sets in?’ Kanthiram looked up at the moon. The sound of roaring water, like that of a thousand drums beat thrust itself in his ears.
During high tide the turbulent swelling water rose and fell on the sweeping shore of sand.
The two walked in silence towards the boat. Night had its own beauty and fragrance. It kept them spellbound.
The wind was a cascade of darkness and white vista of the sea with its waves swelling and surging forever in the distance.
Kanthiram had his battle-axe as it was night. No one knew what danger waited for them under the cover of the night. The axe sparkled in the light of the moon. The tranquillity of the night was shattered by the sound of a gigantic wave breaking on the shore from where came the sound of landslip. Labanga trembled in fear. Her eyes fell on Kanthiram who held the axe firmly. The glint made Labanga turn her eyes away.
Kanthiram called her in a low voice:
‘Labanga come near.’
She swallowed hard and went near. She had no strength felt to question him.
Kanthiram said: ‘From this moment we will share everything. We will walk through this world together, share our dream and hopes for we need each other. See the two ropes you will cut one and I will cut the other.’
Labanga stood with the axe, then as she bent forward her sari dropped from her shoulder revealing the fullness and luxuriance of growth.
Kanthiram looked at her printed sari and pink blouse, the white bead necklace, the spot on her forehead, her black hair. Her large expressive eyes enhanced her beauty. She seemed to him a whole sex condensed into one typical form. He stared at her in wonder. Then followed an exquisite idyll, their impulsive, mutual avowal of love. Labanga remained still and motionless, in a delicate swoon.
It was a wonderful experience and each felt peace in the other. Kanthiram buried his face in Labanga’s body to feel once again the sources of passion and life within her. Thrilled with the touch of her sweat he shook Labanga: ‘My dear, there is salt in your body. Where will you go with it? Labanga turned around to face Kanthiram.
She said with a smile: ‘It is the same with you.’ Kanthiram had no words, no reply.
‘Can you distance yourself from Nonakhal ?’ asked Labanga with a look of meditative sadness.
‘Aren’t the fields and fallows and the air inextricably interwoven with you, your life?’
Kanthiram knew how right Labanga was.
Nonakhal was an inseparable part of his existence, it had laid strong hold on his affection. And the thought of estrangement from it, made him mad with grief. He hated himself and his decision.
Nonakhal was his space. On promising to protect Labanga by every means in his power he had lost all sense of life and death, time and place. Salt tried to flee always, but the mud and silt never desired it. Then why this degradation in him? Why didn’t he realize that in trying to save themselves they would be leading the life of fugitives, marked only by ebb and no flow? Whatever such a life might offer, it would not give peace and honour.
Kanthiram did not wish to live such a life of humiliation and guilt. 
He questioned Labanga who burst into tears:
‘I feel uprooted. Take me back, take me closer to feel the comforting happiness of mother earth.’
‘Then jump.’
Labanga looked around helplessly. She said:
‘The bank is flooded. We will die, the tide will carry us for.’
Kanthiram held her hand firmly. He looked deep into her eyes and said:
‘We will live, we have to live. Remember you are not alone.’
Labanga remembered the child on her womb and jumped headlong. Kanthiram followed.
The sand bank was flooded. Labanga lay flat as Kanthiram nestled beside her. He said:
‘See if he is alive, I’m sure, he will take care of our Noonbari, he drank such quantities of water.’
The thought of a secured future brought a sparkle in Labanga’s eyes. Taking kanthiram’s hand she said: ‘See, if you can feel the presence of Noonbari.’
Kanthiram did so. With a slight pressure of his hand on the Noonbari of the next generation he bent lower, till her breath warmed his face. His cheek was in contact with hers and on her eyelashes lingered tears that mingled with his. His lay there still, motionless, savouring every moment.
He felt the water of the universe had accumulated to form this visionary essence of woman; this sublime beauty that would orchestrate the music of many strands into a symphony of pious bliss.