‘It's all right. I understand,’ Nasreen had said. Just that. She had never said much. It had been a survival strategy with her. Speak little. Don’t create a disturbance. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep a close eye on Father's moods. When the time is right, ask in a soft voice for what you want. Remain alert enough to step back if your request is not granted and still do what you want with the aid of expert lies. The strategy was in her blood. So when Ashesh went back on his promise of a future together, for vague reasons that he knew weren’t convincing, she needed only four words to draw an unfussy curtain over their two years of happiness. A month later she had moved to London permanently, on money borrowed from friends. It was an alien land and an alien culture where she knew only one person, Sunil De from their class, whose father had just been transferred to London. Nasreen had not been angry with Ashesh. She wrote to him occasionally. When she visited Mumbai they would even meet. She could do this because she had instantly accepted the finality of what she had always known would end.

Then there was Yogesh. He had killed himself in a house across the park.

Sitting outside Haresh's room, Ashesh sees the unfairness of his presence there. Around him are a young woman with her young son; an elderly man with his wife, son and daughter-in-law; and a girl of twelve or thirteen, her head in a scarf, her legs pulled up and her chin resting on her knees. Beside them are large bags full of X-rays and blood reports. Once in a while they steal inquiring, sympathetic glances at each other. The expressions on their faces reveal their extreme vulnerability. They are waiting in the hope that the doctor will somehow negate their worst fears. Ashesh has no right to take up Haresh's time for his idiotic fears. He is about to tell Haresh's secretary to knock his name off the waiting list, when Haresh walks down the corridor flanked by his assistants. ‘Come on in. Let me get rid of you,’ he says, throwing his arm around Ashesh. ‘You’re looking fresh and fit, nothing the matter.’

As they enter his room, the young woman follows them in.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you. How are you, Mrs Narayanan?’ Haresh looks intently at her as if there is nobody else in the world who can claim his attention at that moment.

‘I’m fine,’ the woman says. ‘How do I look to you?’

‘Fit as a fiddle. No need at all to worry.’

She grabs Haresh's hand. ‘Thank you so much for everything, doctor. It's your healing touch.’ She pulls her son close to her, her eyes swimming with tears as she turns to go.