Dewa herself had returned from the West where she had been living alone away from her family, self sufficient and fending for herself. To return home was important. But once she returned her confusions grew and she felt her strength ebbing away; a traveller at the crossroads, not knowing which route to take. For her the rank undergrowth of tangled roots and matted creepers grew overwhelmingly close about her and her skin felt bruised, grazed by red-tipped thorns that clutched at her. Her skin had grown too sensitive in the West. It had changed colour. Her voice had grown muted. Even the colour of her clothes had changed. In the West she had worn sombre blacks, beiges, browns. The food she ate was bland but it had nourished her. In her own country she had to taste once more the flavours she had lost, she had to see and touch the colours and textures of leaf and plant and flower that would have blinded her with their brilliance in those cold, grey streets. Her daughter had wanted her to come to India and Dewa too had felt that she had to go to that country where she had been so many times, that it would help make the hard and difficult passage of her return easier. She longed to go on this new journey to touch, to taste, to feel. She wanted her senses to come alive. It would not matter here if she were among strangers. She would be a transient, a pilgrim, a traveller.

Here, then, at this point, in a hotel room on State Bank Road, in a family room with three comfortable beds, blank walls, an attached bath, a washbasin in the alcove and a little balcony with potted roses and bougainvillea, the journey begins. The room is impersonal, vaguely western in its decor. The hotel itself is neutral except for the strange spelling—Hotell Arun. From its windows can be seen the plush Five Star Hotel Rajaliya. At night both hotels are ablaze with coloured lights.