They walked through the alleyways. Natwarlal ahead, Young ten paces behind him. Dark clouds hung in the air like a decrepit ceiling. Natwarlal felt a drop land on his hand. He glanced up and the clouds burst. They stood, maintaining their distance from each other, in the shelter of a building, a commercial establishment. Hailstones rained down, then thunder. A branch fell across from them, heavy, leafy, alive. Within half an hour, the water had risen above their ankles. A few apples and bananas floated by, followed by a cane basket. The water rose to their knees. A handsome street dog, droopy-eyed, brown with white spots, freshly bathed in the torrential downpour was caught in the current. She sailed past, not protesting. She looked at Natwarlal and Young as she passed like she was a queen leading a procession in an open palanquin. Natwarlal waved at her. Young signalled to Natwarlal that they should continue walking. They reached a darker alley with three or four shops on one side. A tall street light, clearly inadequate for the space, flickered at the corner. A black cloth hung around it, absorbing most of the light. The cloth was no accident. People, heads bent, scurried in and out of the doors. In this light one could only see their auras. Two burly men stood at the door of a shop front. Natwarlal greeted one of them and they were let in. An ambient buzz could be heard through the dark interiors. Natwarlal pushed the thick curtain aside to reveal a dimly-lit, spacious, smoke-filled den. Twenty or thirty men of various shapes, sizes and colours were in the room. Some lay listlessly on charpoys. There was an ill-assorted collection of tables and chairs in the space, some wooden and some metal. Some of the chairs were stools now, having lost their backs somewhere along the way. Like the men, the furniture seemed bruised and battered, having seen better days. Oil lamps were distributed across the floor. Many of those seated, were drinking and smoking through long bamboo pipes, sheeshas. They seemed to be alone, despite being physically close. This was an unlicensed chundool (opium) shop. A Chinese man—lean, with braided hair, long shirt and loose pants, both wheatish, and pursed lips, why so serious, it could have been a facade, it was no funny business—directed Young towards a charpoy, while Natwarlal retreated to the entrance. Young examined his surroundings. Everything about the place seemed makeshift and hastily put together. Although it looked like the whole operation could be dismantled in a matter of minutes, it seemed secure. Behind the thick tarpaulin that served as walls there could have been many exits. Inside, not one face could be identified, unless it peered too close to the lamps.

‘Oh! Oh, no!’

‘You. Didn’t expect you here,’ said Young.

‘No! No! The doctor,’ responded Banerjee.

‘The doctor?’

‘It was necessary. I would have expired without it.’

‘Expired?’