Translated from the Assamese by Ranjita Biswas.

“Haraprasad, give me a packet of cigarette”
Once a week Anadi buys a packet of cigarette from this corner stall selling paan of areca nut wrapped in betel leaf, and other knick-knacks. He doesn’t have to get down from the car; he lowers the ‘power window’ and gives the money through the opening to the Hindi-speaking man who comes out from his stall. The man knows Anadi well and also the brand he prefers. The transaction takes a maximum of one minute and then Anadi drives off. Next to him sits Oli, his wife. Like Anadi, she too works in a multinational company. At one time, both of them used to work in the same company.
To be honest, Anadi hardly has any addiction to complain about. He is quite a disciplined man. However, despite trying hard he has not been able to his old habit completely. But he plans to, and has slowly reduced the number of cigarettes he smokes. Thus one packet is made to stretch for a week. It’s just that after dinner he enjoys smoking one. Anadi is sure that in not too distant a future, that habit will also become a memory and this weekly stop at Haraprasad’s stall will cease

Haraprasad took the five hundred rupee note from Anadi and then stopped abruptly and blurted out, “Saheb, I can’t take this note. It’s fake.”
Then he tried to reassure Anadi, “Don’t worry, Sir. You can pay later. But do be careful, these days fake notes are flying about in the bazaar.”
Oli laughed in amusement and said, “Somebody has outsmarted you. You’ve been cheated.”
Oli and Anadi leave the house together in the morning. He drops her at her office on the way to his own. They have an eight-year-old son – Lonu. It’s the responsibility of the domestic help Boltu to take him to the school bus stop and then bring him from there at the end of school. Anadi and Oli have no time to do everything. They don’t even have enough time to devote to Lonu. You can’t have everything in life. After all, a six-figure salary asks for some sacrifices.

After dropping Oli, Anadi was supposed to head straight to the office. But he made a detour instead and drove to a petrol depot. He wondered if the five hundred rupee note was really a fake. He took it out and gave it to the man at the depot saying, “Please give me petrol for five hundred rupees.”
The attendant went to the office with the note and took some time to return. Then he gave it back to Anadi and said , “Sir, we can’t take this note. It’s fake.”

Anadi held the note in his hand and sat still. It looked so similar to the usual five hundred rupee note! The same Reserve Bank stamp, the Ashok pillar with the words satyameva jayate inscribed, the half smiling face of Mahatma Gandhi. The only difference was that, somebody had carelessly put a dot in red ink on his cheek.
How could a person differentiate between a genuine note and a fake one? Anadi was shell-shocked. He found his high voltage self-confidence shaken. Who had stealthily slipped the fake note into his purse? Why didn’t he notice the anomaly?

He left the petrol depot and stopped near the municipality park. He leaned back on the car seat and sat silently. The mobile phone came alive. His colleague Bharadwaj was on the line. The boss was enquiring when Anadi would arrive at the office.
“The market is full of fake notes, Bharadwaj,” Anadi said instead, “Somebody slipped a counterfeit five hundred rupee note into my wad of notes.”
“Oh, really?” Bharadwaj said with his nasal voice. “He dares you!”
Anadi got down from the car and entered the shopping mall near the park. It had just opened. The sales girls were yet to settle down. A huge man was busy with the computer key board at the cash counter. Anadi had been promoted last month. Now he was the marketing head. His salary was a six–figure one. Perhaps he should present a gift to his boss? Ah, look! a bottle of perfume. Just the right gift for his boss.
“Please gift-pack this!”Anadi brought out the cash from his purse, including the fake five hundred rupee note, and gave it to the fat man at the counter.
“Sorry, this note is defective, it won’t do,” the man said almost without any expression in his face, “It’s a fake.” He gave it back.

By nature, Anadi wasn’t too obdurate. But now he felt as if somebody had deliberately insulted him. He sat silently clasping the steering wheel. The mobile phone was ringing constantly. Tarafdar, a dealer, was calling him.
“Hello Tarafdar! The market is getting flooded with counterfeit notes.”
“Yes, Sir! This is the work of ISI of Pakistan trying to destabilize India’s economy. I read a few days ago in Hindustan Times that in the last two years Pakistan has dispatched six thousand…no, no eight thousand, fake notes to India…” Tarafdar sounded a little uncertain.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sir! But don’t worry. The fake notes don’t have water marks. Hold the note against the light and observe. A genuine note has a vertical line running through.”
“Thank you for the tip, Tarafdar!” Anadi said and abruptly cut off the call without giving him a chance to continue. He sat inside the car for a long time without moving. The phone rang again.
‘I am into something,’ Anadi spoke in a soliloquy to himself. He smiled sardonically at himself. ‘If I don’t go to the office for one day what difference would it make? Will it be the end of the world?’
These days he often had a dream – of a school of silvery, restless fish. Emerging from the water and looking like silver coins when held in the palm. As they jump up and down, an ethereal light sparkles in the air. Actually, it was not a dream. Anadi remembers that when they were young, he and his siblings often went to their grandfather’s village on the north bank of the Brahmaputra. The river Dikrong flowed by the village. At daytime, they stood on the bank and observed the fishermen catch fish with their nets. Myriads of small fish, silver in color, jumped in the net. Sometimes they picked up a few when they were poured out on the bank and held them in their palms.
Perhaps the river was not there anymore. Only the memories remained. Like the colorful, silvery and sometimes golden fish in Anadi’s dreams. The fishmonger usually brought fish to their apartment building. Fish with dead eyes, the scales without brightness, the tails still. Was it worth calling them fish?
“You can’t park your car here,” the traffic policeman warned Anadi as he addressed him through the open window. “This is a no-parking area.”
Anadi lowered his voice and spoke, “I am waiting here just for a little while. Please, keep this. I’ll be here just for half an hour.”
The traffic sergeant took the five hundred rupee note from Anadi and pondered for some time. His face was a portrait of disbelief first, then gratification, and suddenly of extreme irritation.
“What kind of joke is this?” he exploded, “Do you know possessing fake notes is a crime?”
The policeman threw the note on the car’s seat and barked angrily, “Now go! Leave here!”

It was past 1o’clock now. Anadi’s usual schedule had gone haywire. Sitting in the car in a parking area he felt lost. He lighted a cigarette and then walked to a roadside stall to have a cup of tea. He stood there for a long time. Then he started walking up and down the road aimlessly like a madman. The fake five hundred rupee note was ensconced in his shirt pocket. Like a guilty feeling it pierced his consciousness incessantly. ‘I have to get rid of it anyhow!’ Anadi thought and absented-mindedly crossed the road. A car dangerously scraped past him; the driver of the car honked long to show his irritation.

The phone was ringing frequently. Did people seek out others so urgently? Or, did the call concern only the market, target and selfish interest? ‘No, I don’t have time now to respond to the calls. A counterfeit note has landed in my purse. I must use it today; otherwise there’s no escape. My long experience, marketing skill, strategy – what’s the use of it all?’ Anadi asked himself.

The ringing from the mobile phone was insistent. He picked it up.
It was Oli asking anxiously, “Where are you?”
“Where are you, Anadi?” she asked again.
“Something is wrong, Oli!” Anadi replied absentmindedly, “ I’m trying to sort it out.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“Sometimes we make mistakes without realizing, Oli! It’s not easy to escape from the consequences.”
“Is there any problem in the office?” Oli was worried.
“I’ll call you later,”Anadi said , hurrying to end the call and added, “ I’m really into something, Oli!”
“Hello! Hello! Aren’t you at the office?”
“Do you remember Oli, I had once told you about a dream? Of all those fish jumping up – with silvery, golden scales…”
His voice was drowned by the shrill honking of a passing truck. He ended the call abruptly. Though the month was September, the heat of summer still clung on. All this excitement and activities away from his usual schedule had made the back of his shirt get soaked with perspiration. At this moment his colleagues were sitting comfortably in a well-appointed, air-conditioned room; perhaps the meeting in the conference room had already started. Coco-Cola or coffee was being served. Mr Sanyal, who had come from Kolkata for the meeting, was most probably asking his colleagues – where is Mr Barua?

Mr Barua meanwhile was involved in an unconventional mission. His pocket held a fake five hundred rupee note. This must be the work of some sly ISI agent. How cleverly it was copied! But Anadi was not concerned about all this. His problem was something else; the more he failed to dispose of the fake note, the more his self-confidence decreased – like the stub of a lighted cigarette.

Anadi entered an ice cream parlor first and then two bookshops. Alas, he was not successful. He felt a little unwell. The mobile phone in his pocket rang repeatedly but he did not respond.

He entered the bazaar. He looked at the rows of crestfallen vegetables and pale fruits. A film of dust had settled everywhere making the surrounding look murky. As the afternoon progressed, shoppers trickled in one by one. The sellers waited expectantly, their faces drawn and thin. Anadi walked through the lanes. Then he arrived at the fish market. Fishes of many varieties, big and small. For a long time Anadi had not entered a market like this. There was no time. The vendors, the hawkers, all came to their apartment building. Boltu went to the market sometimes to buy meat and fish. Where was time for Anadi to attend to these mundane chores? But from time to time Anadi dreamt of a school of restive, colorful fish just emerging from the water. Silver and gold colored, sunlight reflecting from their scales. Their bodies slippery and the eyes bright; some of them have a reddish tinge.

As he stood inside the bazaar he saw a different picture. Rows and rows of fish. But how dull they looked! Lifeless, leaden. Perhaps they had been kept under ice slabs, or brought from a long distance. Their eyes were without life. Under the dim light they looked even more inert.
“Please weigh this fish,” Anadi instructed a fishmonger.
“It’ll be four hundred and fifteen rupees,” the old fishmonger with a guileless face said as he checked the weighing scale. “It’s a good quality fish, you’ll enjoy it.”
Anadi took out the five hundred rupee note from his pocket. It was almost dusk. The light from the single bulb in one corner was weak. In the semi-dark nobody could make out the note as a fake, he was sure. He was in a hurry to leave the damp place, the fish heavy as a stone hanging from his hand.
“Babu, this note won’t do. See, it’s fake,” the fishmonger said suddenly.
Anadi stood rooted to the ground for a moment. He looked at the man. His haggard face was wrinkled with life’s experiences. His eyes, drained of energy, now reflected the light from the bulb. He handed Anadi the note and smiled weakly and said, “Babu, please, I can’t take this note.”
Like a half-conscious man, Anadi took the note from him. Ah, it returned to him again. He felt neither happiness nor pain, but a strange kind of emotion. What a strange game it was, like playing hide and seek with fate. He had experienced many ups and downs in his life, passed many tests, but at this moment disposal of the note was the biggest challenge facing him.

Evening was setting in by now. The city lit up with myriad lights, the rows of headlights from cars were like a procession. The facades of the shops were bright too. Like a lost man Anadi looked up and down the road. The phone was ringing incessantly. He pretended not to hear. It could be Oli, or the boss at the office, or a colleague, even a long-sought-after client…
He had smoked quite a few cigarettes during the day. He stood at a paan stall and lighted another. He had tried to pass off the five hundred rupees note at a couple of places but failed. The more he failed the more adamant he became.
Anadi entered a half-lit lane. From somewhere the high note of a clarinet reaching crescendo wafted into the air. He approached an old palace-like building. An iron staircase swirled up to the second floor. Streams of colored light, sound of loud conversation and unbridled laughter emanated from the premise. It was a cheap lounge bar. There were a few elderly customers but most in the crowd were young. Amidst them were walking around a few young women in revealing dresses. One could not make out whether they were customers or salesgirls as they snaked around the tables. In the semi-dark room their supple bodies created a mysterious aura.
Anadi ordered a bottle of beer. From a corner music wafted in; it was not a live performance after all. A 40 plus man wearing glasses was running his fingers on a synthesizer. An old Hindi song. Mukesh? Or was it Mohammad Rafi?
“Hi!” suddenly he found a young woman standing near his table. She smiled at him and asked, “May I sit down?”
Usually Anadi was quite a smart guy. But now, somehow for a moment he became tongue-tied. She could be in her early twenties; a remnant of her teenage softness still adhered to her face. She was wearing a pair of jeans and the tight top showed off her defiant breasts. Her eyes danced as she asked him, “Are you alone? Am I disturbing you?”
He smiled back and said, “No, no, it’s all right.”
He finished off two bottles of beer. As a matter of courtesy Anadi asked her if she would like to have something to drink. She ordered for a costly cocktail. She touched the glass rim with experienced lips and looking straight into his eyes provocatively said, “Thanks for the drink.”
His mobile phone rang. He switched it off. See, with one click one could get disconnected from all known people. Anadi found himself smiling at the absurdity of his situation. How did he find himself sitting in this cheap bar? In front of him was an unknown young girl with a glass of wine in her hand. The moving ball of light on the ceiling was throwing psychedelic shards of light here and there. A dramatic atmosphere, indeed.
“You look nice when you smile,” the girl complimented. She ordered for another cocktail. Her lips were smeared with dark lipstick. The low-cut top hinted at her proud breasts. Anadi lighted a cigarette. She was perhaps a salesgirl at the bar, or she could be a prostitute. It was not difficult for him to guess now. Her smile, the lipstick-smeared full lips, the inviting look in her eyes were enough for an advertisement. Women like them were employed to increase sales at bars. Anadi had spent years in the marketing department to know the strategy.
“Shall I order for another drink for you?”
So Anadi was right. The music was going on and on, streams of light were playing on their bodies. It was quite late, almost 10 o’ clock. Anadi tapped on the glass with his finger to attract a waiter and asked for the bill.
He brought out a five hundred rupee note from the wallet and took out the one from his breast pocket and assembled them together. The semi-dark bar, the noise of customers’ voices, everybody busy… let’s see how it pans out.
“Take this. Keep the change,” he told the waiter.
“Thank you, Sir!” the waiter took the money but immediately said, “But this one won’t do.”
Anadi climbed down the spiral staircase. He walked fast. He could feel the tinkling laughter of the girl chasing him. He felt his head spinning and walked a little unsteadily. The lane was empty of people now. The windows of the buildings on both sides were dark. The main road was less busy, all the cars were all heading home.

But the fake note still remained with Anadi. Nobody accepted it. Like people’s sins and guilty feeling remain till death, the fake five hundred rupee note remained with Anadi.
He drove toward his home. Cool air entered through the open window. The chanting of a sankirtan from a temple somewhere floated in. The day was almost over without him knowing it. He was not tired but a sense of defeat ate though him. Anadi Barua – smart, educated, qualified. Worked in quite a few MNCs and now at the age of 35 earning a six-figure salary. He whose self-confidence evoked envy, and his demeanor always on display. But without his knowing somebody had easily hoodwinked him with a fake note and throughout the day he tried to get rid of it but failed miserably. What a shame, what a downfall- all his experience at multinationals were ground to the earth.
He braked suddenly. Without knowing why. He saw something in the distance. The temple. On his way to the office he passed it every day. Sometimes Oli visited it. He got down from the car. In front of the temple was a concrete box meant for donations. There was no one around. A few people were sleeping on the footpath. In the distance the night chowkidar was walking to the other side stamping his wooden stick on the road to alert people. Anadi did not hesitate for a moment. He carefully took out the fake note from his pocket and folding it, slipped it into the opening of the box.
There is a solution for every problem in the world. However, sometimes even after the problem is solved, a regret remains. But Anadi felt a huge lightness settling on his chest. Ah, how free! At last he had got rid of the blasted five hundred rupee note. And in a legitimate way too. He was surprised at himself: why hadn’t he thought of it before? The door of the temple was always open for people like him. God is always ready to rescue people in such situations. Ha, ha, ha…
Anadi reached home within ten minutes. Oli was half asleep, Boltu opened the main door
Oli woke up and asked, “Why are you so late? Why did you switch off the phone?”
“There was a problem. Now it’s solved. Don’t worry, go back to sleep,” Anadi replied lightly.
After dinner he retired to bed. Before that he checked his moneybag to make sure. Good, there was no five hundred rupee there, only a couple of two thousand rupee notes and a hundred rupee one. Ah, what a struggle it was throughout the whole day. He was really tired now and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
Next morning dawned busy like any other. The alarm bell rang. Lonu was to be readied for school. Was his tiffin box ready? Who rang the calling bell – the newspaper man, or the milk vendor? As soon as he switched on the mobile phone there were three to four calls. Client, office, boss…
“Where were you yesterday? We were looking for you. This is ridiculous.”
“Sorry Sir! I’ll reach office within forty-five minutes, Sir! “
The day started to gather pace quickly. Of course, there was no regret. He did not want to face a nightmarish day like yesterday. Very soon he would be busy in the air-conditioned office. Market, sales, target, share, index – words that were familiar to him would pull him from all sides. He hurried to the bathroom to take a shower.

Coming out of the bathroom Anadi found that there was a kind of excitement near the kitchen. A fishmonger had brought some freshly caught fish. Boltu had bought them. “Please come here, look how pretty they are,” Oli called him, “I’ve never seen such fresh fish.”
Yes, a surprise indeed. Anadi looked at them in wonder. Exactly like the fish of his dreams. Like a fistful of silver coins, bright and shining. Their scales showed off streaks of red and gold. Anadi looked in amazement at the fish which seemed to descend from his dream-world.
Suddenly he felt as if an electric current passed through his body. In the midst of this city, in his apartment, who had left these fish for him? Was it possible?
“Hey Boltu! Who was this fishmonger? Is he the same one who comes often?”
“No, Sir! I’ve seen him the first time today,” Boltu replied quickly. “He sold the fish, took the money and hurried off.”
Anadi gulped down the food quickly and reached the door. Boltu was already waiting downstairs with his bag, car key, etc. Oli was also getting ready to leave with him.
“I took the money from your wallet to buy the fish, “Oli shouted from the bedroom as she got dressed, “I’ve kept back the change in your bag.”
Anadi waited for Oli at the door. Out of habit, he checked if the handkerchief and the pen were in his pocket. Now the cell phone. Good, it was fully charged. Then he touched his pocket to see if the wallet was there. It was there all right. He had some time yet and so took it out and opened it casually.
He almost shouted but stopped. His mouth opened in terror. That five hundred rupee note! Like magic it had returned to his wallet. He could recognize the note even from among many – no watermark, no silver stripe. And then the carelessly marked red dot on Gandhi’s smiling face.
“How did this five hundred rupee note come here?” he asked Oli, his voice trembling.
“Oh, the fishmonger gave as change, “Oli was surprised, “What’s wrong with you?”
Anadi did not reply. Oli did not know that for him an endless journey of trying to solve a problem had started all over again.

Footnote:
Paan: A combination of areca nut and betel leaf commonly chewed in the North East India.
Hindi film: The most popular entertainment form in India, though there are regional language films too across the country.
Mukesh: short for Mukesh Chand Mathur, a popular Hindi-film singer of yesteryears (1923 –1976)
Mohammad Rafi: A prolific and popular singer of Hindi-film songs (1924 -1980).
Sankirtan: Singing of devotional songs together in a group
Satyameva Jayate : Truth alone triumphs