Preface
Preface There is a river in the borderlands that does not speak, but remembers. I first heard of the Begul River not from a map but from a woman who had lived beside it all her life. She told me that the river had seen everything—the Partition, the refugee columns, the camps, the clearing of the forest, the building of villages, the bodies that were sometimes pulled from its waters. She told me that the river kept its own archive, written in silt and silence. She told me that if I listened carefully, I might hear what the river had to say. I listened. This novel is what I heard. The story of Ratna Mandal came to me in fragments, as such stories often do. A newspaper report. A whispered conversation in a tea stall. A police file that someone had forgotten to destroy. An old woman in a market who said, "She was a teacher, you know. She taught girls to read. No one remembers that. They only remember how she died." The fragments gathered themselves into a life—and a death, and ...