The sari shop was popular with the city’s new women. They came from nowhere, disappeared to nowhere, their untied hair played with the sea breeze, their midriffs exposed, accentuated by short sleeveless blouses. Did they walk out of Dhurandhar’s portraits? Was he hiding behind a window, or in the shop, painting them?

Banerjee was certain that Raja Ravi Varma was the country’s greatest painter. On Friday he heard Thompson say Dhurandhar had transcended Varma. The next day, at the arts school, at Dhurandhar’s ‘Women in India’ exhibition, Banerjee nodded in affirmation.

‘Banerjee sir.’

‘Huh  . What is it?’

‘Nothing. How is the plague in Calcutta?’

‘There is no plague in Calcutta. Who said?’

‘I was only asking. I saw a mouse in the filing room yesterday. I thought—’

‘There are no mice in this building.’

‘Sir, I saw it with my own eyes. Let me show you.’

Natwarlal ran to the filing room and returned with a file.

‘Sir, see this file. The mouse ate half of it.’

‘Let me see. Why is it wet?’

‘No. No. It’s not a mouse. There must be a leak,’ Natwarlal fumbled.

‘What leak?’

‘Water.’

‘Is it raining cats and dogs in the filing room?’

‘Cats and dogs,’ repeated Banerjee with emphasis. He had learned the new phrase last week and had noted it in his diary that he filled at the rate of one page a day:

Raining Cats and Dogs by Jonathan Swift (1710)

Meaning: Heavy rain.

Sentence: It is raining cats and dogs in Calcutta today.

‘And the rain made such a big hole?’ Banerjee asked as he walked towards the filing room. ‘Let me see.’

Natwarlal blocked the doorway. ‘No! It’s okay. I must have eaten it by mistake.’

‘Have you been drinking, Natwarlal?’

The stench in the filing room hadn’t dissipated. Pestonjee rushed to the scene. Seeing him, Natwarlal looked relieved.

‘Natwarlal, did you leave the cow here?’ Banerjee asked.

Natwarlal looked at Pestonjee, then at Banerjee and then at Pestonjee again.

‘You will be fined a day’s salary,’ Banerjee said, ‘and repair that file.’

‘But Pestonjee, sir,’ Natwarlal protested.

‘“Pestonjee sir!” Pestonjee sir won’t save you this time. Mr Banerjee is right,’ Pestonjee winked at Natwarlal. Natwarlal did not look up. He walked to the filing room, grumbling under his breath.

12

As the professor concluded his lecture in the public hall, Young and the officer approached him.

‘I am here to talk to you about a project,’ said Young.

‘Is it about the life and works of Pandurang Shripad Athavale?’

‘No.’

‘I’m glad. Because I don’t know who he is. What is the project about?’

‘Let me tell you this, if I know your religion, caste, age and sex, I can tell you what kind of paan you eat?’

The professor raised his eyebrows. ‘Brahmin, Deshashtha, Gotra—’

‘Brahman is enough.’