It has been a long time since Ashesh has been on a bus. He stands squashed between two hefty men like chutney in a sandwich. That was always his way, even at college. Haridas's way was to push his elbows into his neighbours’ ribs to make enough space for himself to breathe. Haridas said to Ashesh back then, ‘If you allow yourself to become chutney in people's bread, they will naturally gobble you up. If someone gives you one, you must give them two back. Didn’t your Pa teach you?’ The visual before Ashesh was Anna spinning every morning on his charkha. He smiled and shook his head. Then asked, ‘You got it from your Pa?’ The question was just a bit of teasing designed to bring on one of Haridas's special quips. But Haridas had tossed his head contemptuously instead and spat out, ‘Middle-class shit. You’re assuming I have a father. I mean he's there, somewhere.’ He had left it at that.

It was twenty-two years ago that Ashesh had unwittingly stumbled into Haridas's private life. He had never done it again. Later he had heard Haridas concoct all kinds of tales about his birth, place of birth, parents, home, using his remarkable imagination to colour the stories differently each time. This had created an aura of mystery around him which the media had lapped up. Perhaps it was because Ashesh had respected his privacy that on a dry and empty night, when the two young men were walking on the Marine Drive promenade, Haridas had said apropos nothing, ‘People want to know your full name, parentage, caste, so they can fit you into a docket. Don’t give them any idea of where you come from and you remain yourself. And free.’

Ashesh had looked at him with wonder. In a culture where, if you asked somebody his name, he would convivially tell you his life story, how could this man hide his roots so successfully and live unattached? The wonderment was part of the first years of their friendship. Later he lost his curiosity.