Why is the ceiling this low? It took Banerjee half a minute to realize where he was. First, that he was alone. Second, that the room was completely red, including the bed, the lamp and the curtains. Third, that the room was hot, despite the dark interiors. What time is it? He got out of bed. He swayed a bit and leaned on the wall to steady himself. He opened the large window. The light hit him with such audacity that he had to shut the window quickly and sit on the floor. His head ached. He vomited. Then retreated unsteadily back to bed. Within an hour, he rose a second time. Without negotiation, he stepped on the floor and opened the window again. He was on the first floor. Below dhoti-clad men were beating wet clothes on grey stone slabs. Large drums stood next to the slabs, some containing water, others being used to soak clothes and sheets, most of them white. Clothes fluttered on thin ropes. On the left, a long line of tethered donkeys, some brayed impatiently. Dhobi Ghaut! He stepped back and opened the door on his right. A narrow corridor led to a staircase, at the bottom of which was a door that opened onto the main street. The water from the previous day’s heavy rain had not receded. Within minutes, the sun disappeared behind clouds. The slow drizzle turned into a downpour. He looked up. The rain drops hurt his eyes. It must have rained all night. Only rain restores order to this city.

That afternoon when he reached the office, his head still ached. The clouds cleared and a rainbow appeared in the sky, not brilliant, but symmetric, well-behaved. The next day he remained drowsy and grey and didn’t notice Pestonjee pass by his desk, twice. Thompson was not in office yet.

‘Where’s Mr Young?’ Banerjee asked Natwarlal that afternoon.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Who put my briefcase here?’ Banerjee had assumed that he had lost it two nights ago.

‘I did. Young sir asked me to accompany him. I waited outside the shop until you and Young sir came out.’

‘Is that how I ended up in Dhobi Ghaut?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh! I was wondering what I was doing in that neighbourhood. I couldn’t imagine myself in a place like that. I’ve never been there, ever. Where is Mr Young?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

25

It was hot and humid. The Causeway remained as pebbled, as grey. The stone arches of the building were protective. The paanwala was nestled inside his shop, whistling at the dull afternoon. Enumerator A remained in his chair. He filled only half of it. When the sun hit him at an angle he seemed older. He usually looked quite boyish with his inquisitive, jet-black eyes. At this hour, his eyes were not visible. He had drifted off some time ago, his pencil lay on the ground.