On a crisp Sunday morning towards the end of November, Ambika Prasad learnt that he had not long to live. He had been lying on the doctor's examining table, a narrow and raised platform clothed in green Rexine, and had just sat up. His head swam a little as he adjusted his glasses and tried to find the foothold with the toes of his left foot. He figured he was dizzy from sitting up too quickly, not because of any shock from hearing bad news about his health.
His doctor, Udayan Sikdar, was busy scribbling on a fresh white sheet of the prescription pad. He was bald and portly, and his thick, black-rimmed glasses overpowered a kind face. "So, think hard and tell me Ambika-ji. What should I put down for your age?"
Ambika Prasad smiled to participate. Dr Sikdar never seemed to tire of the joke.
"You know how old I was. Fifty-five."
"So you say," Dr Sikdar laughed.
"So I know."
Growing up, Ambika Prasad had no idea about his birthday. He was certain his siblings and cousins didn't know theirs either. Children were born like flies in their village. No one made a fuss about the day or the time. If the newborn and its labour-weary mother survived, it was enough.
When the time had come for him to join his uncles in town and find a livelihood, he had asked his mother about his age. She had thought for a while. It was a mixed year, the way she remembered. The village had not flooded during the rains but Rampuri, their milch cow, had suffered a stillbirth. She was certain of the time though. The overnight train was rattling past even as the first cries of the baby were heard. In fact, she had been so witless with pain that it seemed that the mud walls, vibrating all around, would fall on her. Knowing how trains ran, Ambika Prasad had decided against further inquiries.
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