Although Ashesh is squashed between the two hefty men, he has not lost the old skills that will free him from the bind. He still has his bus-riding wits about him. From the moment he has boarded the bus, his eyes have grown sharper. He appears to be standing erect, but psychologically he is bent over like an athlete waiting for the pistol to go. The moment he spies someone stirring in a seat to left or right ahead of him, he will be off the block. The bus player must have that degree of concentration if he is to win a seat. A little before the stop after Nana Chowk, the bony Bohri in the left-hand seat of the third row stirs. In that very moment Ashesh shoots forward, pre-empting his bulkier neighbour's rather more sluggish move, to stand proprietorially over the Bohri. As soon as he lifts his bottom off the seat, Ashesh pushes his in. He squirms his way into the seat even while the man is still halfway into the aisle. It is only after he settles in that he feels abashed. He is no longer a student. He is an established artist, for God's sake. He glances around surreptitiously. Nobody in the bus knows him. Relief.

Blocking his view of the road ahead is a massive back with a Terylene shirt with tiny blue pinstripes stretched across it. The shirt is so tight that the owner of the back is obliged to raise a shoulder and an arm every now and again to loosen its hold in the armpits. Every now and again he also looks out of the window on the right or the left and touches his forehead, chest and lips with the fingertips of his right hand. He does this at least half a dozen times between Nana Chowk and Haji Ali. When he turns his head, Ashesh follows his look. Twice he sees street-side shrines, but the other eight times he sees nothing. Which invisible gods is the man paying homage to?

At Worli Naka, the man's neighbour and friend is truly and properly annoyed. ‘Now which god was that?’ he rasps. Ashesh eavesdrops shamelessly because he too must know. ‘There's a cross down that street and one of the houses in there has a Ganesh plaque on the door.’

‘That's your problem. Mixing your gods.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m a fool. So?’

‘Not a fool. More dangerous than that. Do they bow before our gods?’

‘Why not? In Zaveri Bazaar . . .’

‘Forget it. Do what you want.’

Massive Back laughs and again raises his fingers to his forehead, chest and lips. Ashesh continues to count. It's twelve up to Portuguese Church. Evidently there are that many dargas, crosses, churches, Ganesh plaques on doors, Shiva idols in niches, Sai Babas in tree shrines and stones smeared with sindoor tucked away in all those lanes and alleyways; and Massive Back knows them all.