took it into his head to imprison his romantic soul in the flesh of a body which better befitted a Marwari cloth-merchant.
I cannot imagine what led me to make friends with such a fellow as Animesh. His own motive, I suppose, was gratitude. I listened to every verse he ever wrote. I was the only person who ever praised his singing; while his handwriting, which seemed to others nothing but black and white drawings of an army of ants on the march was at least legible to me. I have lost count of the number of his essays, stories, poems and letters which I copied out for him in his fat leather-bound books. As a boy I had taken great pains with my handwriting, though of course with no good intention. It was to imitate the handwritings of my fellow-students and teachers, and so well did I do it, that nobody ever found me out. It was a great weapon in my armoury; it served both offensive and defensive purposes. I could imitate voices too, and with the help of these two accomplishments, I had somehow struggled up to the college classes with the skin of my back still intact.
But I am forgetting that I am not a celebrity and should not be so ready to write an autobiography which no one would care to read. On the other hand I am sure that I shall find listeners if I tell a story. And these days, time hangs heavy on my hands, now that I have lost my only occupation, Animesh to wit. And I want to tell people how it happened.
That year our Puja vacation kept on being extended until it touched December. It was all due to the influenza epidemic. Now I returned to Calcutta in expectation of the College reopening and now I went back to Sealdah station with my bag in hand. After three or four times I tired of the sameness of the joke and resolved not to go back home again. The Mess was almost empty, for nearly all the boys were away home. The doors of the unoccupied rooms stood ajar, the cook and the servants came and
