Banerjee had done his utmost to convince his father to sell their portion. The offers fell far below their expectations. The judicial process had burned through the family’s pockets. Now, although their legal expenses exceeded what could be salvaged from the property, perpetuating the cases had become a matter of honour, a matter of custom, and a matter of casual conversation at social events. Relations between the two families who shared the Banerjee house disintegrated to such an extent that they decided to divide the house through the middle and erected a wall that cleaved through the living room on the ground floor and bisected the four bedrooms on the first floor equally. Before, the living room was airy and cheerful with large windows on three sides, an expensive, albeit gaudy, chandelier suspended from the centre of the ceiling and on the floor a burgundy Persian carpet, darkened beautifully with age—it smelled of rose, no one knew why. One family took the chandelier, the other, the carpet. The chandelier hung dismally in half the space reflecting one-third of the original light, its glass beads embarked upon a long uncertain period of hibernation. The carpet, instead of being rolled up in the hope of a brighter future, was folded in half and placed on the floor. One half of the family stood two inches taller than the other. In time, the living rooms looked like two dingy used-furniture shops.

The inmates of the house entered and exited from opposite sides. They considered their adversaries’ faces inauspicious to begin or end the day with and went to great lengths to avoid an encounter. Not that any of their faces were particularly auspicious to look at. Some were sincerely avoided. Most had trouble in the marriage market. A neighbour said, ‘With a face like  .’

The merchant families in the neighbourhood adopted a policy of wait and watch. Even those with a higher proclivity towards risk, let their offers lapse. And then, the low-lying monsoon clouds brought with them another breed of entrepreneurs who recommended brute force. These offers were easy to resist given their distaste for muscle. The ethic of non-violence was strongly ingrained and regularly championed. More recently, Banerjee’s uncle was approached by Sir Cornelius Traveller.

‘For a small sum of three hundred rupees, you will regain your house and your reputation,’ Cornelius said. Three hundred rupees was a fortune. ‘Big feats require loose purses,’ added Cornelius.

‘Penny wise and pound foolish.’ Yet, Banerjee’s uncle was obdurate.

‘No risk, no reward,’ Cornelius persisted.

‘No, we cannot afford to be indiscriminate,’ the uncle responded.

Finally, Cornelius Traveller resorted to Shakespeare.

‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.’