Picture this: an imposing, three-storey mansion on Calcutta’s tree-lined upscale Southern Avenue. The house and its grounds are surrounded by a fifteen-foot-high wall, topped with glittering
shards of glass. To passers-by nothing of the interior is visible, neither the manicured gardens, nor the four garages, nor the warren of staff quarters at the rear. The main entrance is sealed by a forbidding steel gate, pierced only by a peephole through which the durwans can scrutinize would-be visitors. On one of the gateposts hangs a large gilt-bordered nameplate embossed with a single word: ‘Guptas’.
The Gupta family has risen, in one generation, from modest to quite extravagant wealth. This is largely the doing of the seventy-five-year-old patriarch who has expanded a small jute-processing company into a commercial and industrial empire that sprawls across much of the country. Now semi-retired, Harihar Gupta (or ‘HH’, as he is known in business circles) lives with his seventy-year-old wife on the ground floor of the mansion, keeping a keen eye on the garden, and the malis who tend to it, making sure that earthworms, grasshoppers and the like are not ill-treated or wantonly killed. Being Marwari Hindus, the Guptas are strict vegetarians, but they follow their observances even more strictly than most members of their community because the patriarch has continued to uphold many of the beliefs and practices of his late mother, who was a deeply religious Jain: the family, therefore, goes to great lengths to avoid harming any form of life.
On the upper storeys of the mansion live the patriarch’s two sons; they each have an entire floor to themselves to accommodate their families and their domestic help, including the ayahs who look after their children. The patriarch’s younger son, Abhay, thirty-nine, and his family live on the top floor in a spacious, breezy apartment that commands a fine view of Dhakuria Lake, which stretches away into the distance, flanking Southern Avenue. Abhay Gupta has two children, a five-year-old boy, Sandeep, and a three-year-old girl, Varsha.
Sandeep is a plump child with pouty lips and an easy-going disposition; he is generally good-natured, except when provoked by his younger sister, of whom he is more than a little jealous because she is the apple of their father’s eye.
Varsha is a pretty, cherubic girl with nut-brown eyes, short black braids and a sparkling smile that lights up her whole face. For a three-year-old she is very precocious, fluent not only in Hindi, the language mainly used in the Gupta household, but also in Bengali, which is the language she speaks with her ayah. But apart from displaying an occasional streak of stubbornness, Varsha too is an equable child who has never done anything surprising or untoward—at least not until 20 September 1969.
There are certain years when time seems to speed up: for India and its neighbours, as for the world, and even beyond, 1969 is one such, for it is in July that Neil Armstrong becomes the first human to set foot on the moon. This is also the year when the Earth’s temperature is measured by a satellite for the first time, and the reports seem almost unbelievable today: the average temperature worldwide in 1969 is no different from what it was in 1877, almost a century earlier. Around the planet the weather is relatively cool and clement, which is not surprising since the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is a mere 325 parts per million.
The political climate, on the other hand, is neither cool nor clement. In recent months the world has been rocked by a succession of events: mass uprisings in the nascent nation of Bangladesh; race riots in Malaysia; the deployment of British troops in Northern Ireland; a coup in Libya led by Colonel Muammar Gaddafi; and intensifying protests against the Vietnam War in the wake of Ho Chi Minh’s death on 2 September. In the midst of the worldwide turmoil an apparition of the Virgin Mary, which first appeared a year ago, above the Zeitoun Church in Cairo, is still attracting huge crowds: the glowing figure outlined within a shimmering sphere of light has since been witnessed by hundreds of thousands of people, including Egypt’s President Gamal Abdel Nasser. It has also been extensively photographed and filmed.
In India a major political crisis is brewing which will soon cause the Congress Party to split into two factions, one of which will become the dynastic fiefdom of Indira Gandhi and her family. A still more ominous set of events, with even grimmer portents for the future, is unfolding in Gujarat. For months tensions between Hindus and Muslims have been building in Ahmedabad, and on 18 September a wave of violence sweeps over the city. Over the next few days, innumerable shops, houses and places of worship are reduced to ashes, and hundreds of people, Hindu and Muslim, are killed.
While the events in Vietnam and Libya and on the moon have barely registered with the Gupta family, the riots in Gujarat have touched them directly and personally because they have extensive familial and commercial connections with Ahmedabad. They have spent hours on the phone, placing trunk calls to their relatives: the scratchy lines and the anxiety in their relatives’ voices have only deepened their alarm, putting them even more on edge.
This being 1969, the phones in question are heavy, black objects with circular dials. To possess even one of these is a mark of privilege for an Indian family, but the Gupta mansion, by virtue of the wealth that it houses, boasts no less than three telephones, one on each floor. The instruments are on conspicuous display in the respective sitting rooms, each placed atop a shrine of its own, often with an incense stick burning under it.
*
For the last few days the phones have been the centre of attention on every floor of the mansion. Whenever one rings, the very air seems to vibrate, as if a shock wave has passed through the house. Everyone holds their breath until an adult member of the family answers; every ear strains to listen, waiting for news of the dire situation on the other side of the subcontinent, a thousand kilometres to the west.
Little do the Guptas know—and who can blame them?—that the event which will have the greatest bearing on their lives will occur in their own house, and in the most innocuous of settings: the pantry on the third floor, where little Sandeep and Varsha take their midday meals. On 20 September, when the children begin eating, there is no indication of anything untoward in the offing. They sit at a small table, wearing large bibs, while their respective ayahs hand-feed them mouthfuls of roti soaked in bright yellow panchmel dal. Varsha’s caregiver is bringing one last morsel towards the child’s lips when, instead of obligingly opening her mouth, Varsha slaps her hand away, splattering the floor with marigold-hued lumps of food.
Then, in a loud, clear voice she declares, in Hindi, ‘I want rice and fish. Give me some fish.’ A moment later, as if to underline the urgency of her demand, she says, in Bengali, ‘Ami machh-bhat khabo. Machh dao.’
This is greeted as a joke by the ayahs, who titter mildly as they clean up the mess on the floor. ‘All right,’ says one of them, humouring the child. ‘Tomorrow we’ll give you a big, big fish to play with. But only if you eat your food quietly now, like a good girl.’
This has no effect: the next piece of roti and dal that is brought to Varsha’s mouth meets the same fate as the one before. The child strikes her ayah’s hand away from her face and cries out, ‘I want fish now! I don’t want rotis and dal.’
Her shocked caregiver stares at her uncomprehendingly. ‘We can’t give you fish, Varsha beti. You know that. There’s no fish in this house.’ ‘Then I won’t eat anything!’ screams the normally even-tempered three-year-old. ‘I won’t eat anything at all until you give me some rice and fish.’ Varsha’s eyes are blazing, not with frustration or peevishness, which would not have been untoward in a child of her age, but with an anger that seems almost adult in its intensity.
By this time the sound of the child’s voice has reached the kitchen, bringing several other members of the household staff into the room. On hearing the outlandish demand repeated again and again, they understand that Varsha is, in some sense, serious. But how could this be? The child has never been near a fish, let alone tasted one.
Maybe she had a dream, someone suggests.
Or perhaps she wants a toy that looks like a fish?
These speculations are put to rest by the child, who says, ‘No! I want to eat fish. Why do you never feed me any fish and rice?’
It is clear now that something must be done, that the family must be told. But who will do it? Even at the best of times to carry such a shocking tale to Varsha’s mother, Dipika, would mean risking a berating and possibly even dismissal. And today is far from being the best of days for the child’s mother: she has been consumed with worry for her family in Gujarat since early in the morning and this, in turn, has meant that she has been unusually cranky and short-tempered with the domestic help. To everyone’s relief, she is now closeted in her bedroom with her hairdresser, having her hands hennaed, as she does once every month; this is her special, private time, and everyone in the house knows that she is never to be disturbed during that hour. No employee can even contemplate intruding on her, much less with news like this.
As if by mutual consent the ayahs turn to little Sandeep. ‘Jao, beta!
Go, tell your mother what Varsha is saying.’
Sandeep is nothing loath to make trouble for his annoyingly precocious little sister. He runs out of the pantry without even washing his hands, his voice echoing down the long corridor: ‘Mummyji, Mummyji, Varsha says she wants to eat fish!’
The boy’s shouts put an instant end to the hennaing; Dipika bursts out of her bedroom, holding her mehendi-encrusted hands out in front of her, kangaroo-like, and comes bounding into the pantry, where she stands looming over her daughter. ‘Is this true, Varsha? Did you ask to eat fish?’
Dipika is high-strung and volatile and the children are usually careful not to provoke her. But today little Varsha looks her right in the eye and repeats, loudly, ‘I want to eat rice and fish. Don’t you understand? I want fish!’
Taken aback, her mother recoils, and it falls to her ayah to chide the child. ‘What is this, Varsha baby? You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that.’
At that things get even worse.
Looking Dipika directly in the eye, Varsha says, loudly and clearly, ‘That is not my mother. My real mother’s name is Jhorna. She doesn’t live here. Our home is beside a river.’
This would have been bad enough if it had been said in private, but the presence of so many members of the Guptas’ staff makes it even worse because the story is bound to spread through the compound in a matter of moments. It is too much for Dipika; choking back a sob, she does something she has never done before. She gives her daughter a faltering little slap, marking her cheek with a filigreed imprint of the hennaed patterns that are still drying on her palms.
In the Gupta mansion the sound of a raised voice carries easily from floor to floor because the doors of the apartments are often left open. Now footsteps are heard rushing up from the floor below, and Varsha is soon surrounded by her aunt’s retinue of maids and household staff. Then her aunt, a stout, formidable woman, arrives herself and goes into a huddle with Dipika, demanding to know whether it is true that Varsha has asked to eat fish. When this is confirmed she looks around the room with a scowl and mutters, ‘Maybe someone has been feeding her fish in secret?’
As always, suspicion falls immediately on the domestic help and caregivers. The staff are mostly from Bihar and are vegetarians; the only Bengalis are Varsha’s ayah, Bhola’r-ma, and a couple of others, hired on condition that they renounce meat and fish forever. And they have shown every outward sign of having done so, often loudly expressing their disgust at the dietary habits of their fellow Bengalis. But not everyone is convinced of their sincerity, and there are many in the household who believe that their local co-workers stuff themselves with fish and fowl every time they visit their families: it is well-known, after all, that Bengalis cannot do without their fish, rice and mustard oil. Don’t they even have a saying which they brazenly boast about: Machhe bhate Bangali (Bengali by fish and rice)? Perhaps one of them smuggled some fish into the house and gave Varsha a taste behind the family’s back?
The first to be questioned is Bhola’r-ma. A buxom, placid Bengali with red paan-stained teeth, she indignantly denies having served Varsha fish, pointing out that she is a widow and, in keeping with the customs of Bengali Hindus, has been a strict vegetarian since she lost her husband many years ago. Nor could she have acquired fish on the sly since she almost never leaves the compound, having been kicked out of her son Bhola’s house by her domineering daughter-in-law.
It is Varsha herself who puts an end to her aunt’s interrogation of Bhola’r-ma. ‘What does she have to do with it?’ she cries. ‘She’s never given me any fish.’
‘Then why are you talking about eating fish? How can you even mention such a dirty, stinking thing?’ her aunt demands, pinching her nose at the very thought of that fishy odour. ‘Do you have any idea how horrible that fishy smell is?’
‘I know how fish tastes and smells,’ says Varsha with perfect equanimity. ‘I’ve eaten it all my life. I know how to catch fish too, with a net.’
‘What?’ cries her aunt. ‘How can you talk like that, you shameless girl?’
Word of what is happening in the pantry has now spread through the whole mansion, as becomes evident when the patriarch and his wife appear suddenly at the top of the staircase. They are a distinguished-looking couple, both dressed in immaculate white clothes: HH in a stiffly starched dhoti and kurta, and his wife in a crisp Kota sari. The venerable patriarch is leaning heavily on an ebony cane, and is followed closely by his personal assistant, a bald gnome of a man, armed with a notebook and pencil. That the older Guptas have taken the trouble to climb two flights of stairs is itself a sign of the gravity of the situation because they rarely venture all the way up from their ground-floor apartment.
The ring of onlookers parts respectfully as the elderly couple approaches their granddaughter. ‘Listen, beti,’ says HH and the room falls silent, except for Dipika, who is sobbing quietly in a corner. ‘You know that fish has never been brought into this house. So why are you talking about it? You have never eaten anything of the kind.’
‘I ate fish at my other house,’ says Varsha. ‘The one by the river, where I lived with my real mother.’
‘But you don’t have any other house,’ her grandfather says. ‘And your mother is right here. This house is the only place you have ever lived.’ ‘No,’ says Varsha, her voice rising. ‘I have lived in another place—
a house by a river. It wasn’t like this house. It had mud walls and the roof was made of leaves. Behind it was a pond where I caught fish with a net. There were many kinds of fish in the pond and I used to cook them in different ways.’
The stupefied onlookers turn their gaze to the patriarch, hoping that he, who has so long been the family’s helmsman, will know what to do. The elder Mr Gupta is not unaware of what is expected of him.
Smiting the marble floor with his cane, he immediately takes charge of the situation. Where, he demands, is Abhay, Varsha’s father?
He is out of town, HH is informed by his assistant. He has gone to Kharagpur to visit a cement factory that he has been placed in charge of, but he is due to return this afternoon.
Everyone is relieved to hear this. Varsha is deeply attached to her father. He, if anyone, will be able to talk sense into the child.
‘All right then,’ continues the patriarch. ‘While we are waiting for Abhay, call Dr Monty Bose and tell him to come over immediately. If the phone lines are down, send a peon with a note.’
This too is greeted with collective approbation; everyone recognizes that this is the right thing to do. Dr Monty Bose is Varsha’s paediatrician and a friend of Varsha’s father, with whom he sometimes plays tennis at the Tollygunge Club. Dr Bose knows the family well, having tended to both of Abhay Gupta’s children since their birth. And Abhay reposes great trust in the doctor because he, like Abhay himself, has studied in America and is very highly qualified. No time is lost in summoning the paediatrician.
Through all this, even though the family is now in a state of panic, Varsha is completely ‘normal’, busy with her favourite plaything, a length of yarn which she is tying into knots. Everyone leaves her alone, out of fear of what she might say next if provoked.
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From Ghost-Eye by Amitav Ghosh. by Amitav Ghosh. Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Copyright © 2026 by Amitav Ghosh. All rights reserved
