Having failed to extract a satisfactory response from the officer, Natwarlal, or Battisi, the street theologian concluded they were not on par with the rest of the crowd on issues of contemporary theology and returned to his original flock. The spokesman, on the other hand, like many others, was mesmerized, despite being privy to this speech many times. He had arrived long before the theologian and had quickly asserted himself. Yet when the street theologian arrived at the scene a few weeks ago, the spokesman acknowledged that he was not quite up to it and returned to enumerating the facts. Nevertheless, the spokesman was convinced he was not playing second fiddle. Without the scientificity of facts, no one will believe the theologian. He needs me. He needs my clarity. However, each time the theologian spoke, the spokesman couldn’t help feeling that the primary reason why the theologian had taken over was different. The theologian’s sundried face, his peppered hair and beard, his piercing eyes, his half-sleeved white kurta, performed only a part of the role. At times the theologian would raise his hands upward towards the sky with awe. The spokesman’s intuition told him that the street theologian was truly closer to the man standing on one leg, to the crow accompanying the man, to the tree that had become divine through the doctrine of contact, and to God himself—his mischiefs and misadventures. For some reason that the spokesman could not articulate, the theologian seemed more willing and able, not only with his head and heart, but with his entire body that seemed porous, in sync with its surroundings, absorbing, learning and giving.

‘The crow arrived two months ago,’ the spokesman continued, ‘and now refuses to leave the man’s side and has begun to caw in unison with the man standing on one leg. It says “cow”, but in English. A few days ago, an Englishman was here. He confirmed that this crow actually said “cow” in English.’

‘I don’t believe it. It’s like crows eating rice,’ Natwarlal said.

‘I have seen crows eat rice many times. With my own eyes,’ Battisi responded.

‘They smell it. They don’t eat it. I heard it from Sir Thompson. When Banerjee’s grandfather died, his father sent for him a few times. I personally delivered the letter to Banerjee. The letter said that the crow had not touched the rice for two days.’

‘Do you read office letters?’

‘No. Never. How can I? I overheard Banerjee talking to Sir Thompson. Banerjee was the old man’s favourite grandson. Banerjee called him Dada. He wanted to see Banerjee before he died. Didn’t happen. On the tenth day, at the ceremony, the crow did not touch the rice. Dada’s soul did not depart. It is hanging between this world and the next. Banerjee said it was an expensive trip, and for someone who is no longer alive.’