‘You come, you are an enlightened lady who has been abroad and has been influenced by the West.’ He wants them all, he wants Dewa especially to meet his wife who, he says, is fair with a wheatish complexion. They are too tired to go. Anna is recovering from her bout of fever in Bangalore. There is much packing to do and a comfortable bed, a hot bath, hot kaapi are what they look forward to most. ‘You are a villain,’ Thandampani tells Anna accusingly. ‘Because of you, your mother cannot visit my home.’ Anna is too weary, still recuperating and does not want to go anywhere even to eat fresh steaming idlis made by Thandampani’s wife. And Dewa, however broadminded and liberal in the west, will never, here, embark on a journey with Thandampani alone.

‘Next time,’ Dewa says placatingly. ‘I will return.’ Thandampani settles back happily to drink hot kaapi. He turns patronizingly to the room boy who is very friendly with them and who obviously resents Thandampani lording it over him. He knows that this man on another occasions would not deign to look at him.

‘Thambi, how much you are earning?’ he asks. Thambi does not answer.

The conversation continues. It is on the topic of his wife.

‘I took my wife to the temple. There was a big crowd that day. She was not pleased with me because I did not manage to get a good place for her right in front where the poojas were taking place. I will take her to the temple but that is all I will do. I cannot push through the crowds. She had not got a good view of the inner sanctum and the gods for the blessing. But what could I have done, crushed on all sides by the milling crowd of devotees? That is not the way to worship. How can you pray with so much sound, so many bodies jostling you?’

Dewa never meets his wife whom he is educating with his liberal ideas. He takes her on his Bajaj scooter to open university classes. He is proud of her fair skin which appears to be an important consideration for marriage. He is ambitious. In his hands he holds the blueprints for the house he is going to build with a bank loan. He is fascinated by the materials and sarees that Dewa has bought to take back. He has never seen, never heard of their richness—the real, the traditional Kutch work, the ikkat-dyed sambalpurs, the kalamkari khadi and the bandhani, all very inexpensive, very unique. He sees a batik cotton, implies that Indian ladies of the elite social strata will not wear this.

‘You can say what social class a lady belongs to by the sarees she wears. That saree perhaps she will wear to the kitchen.’