‘Then things happened fast. That night my uncle physically shoved me into a train and took me to another uncle’s in Kolhapur. I did my BA under Uncle’s strict guard. Then I did my master’s in English. Had I been in the village, I’d have been married off immediately after graduation. Uncle wrote home to say I had got my master’s. Two scrappy notes came back. One was from Mother to my aunt. “Buy her a nice sari on my behalf.” The other was from Father to my uncle. “Ask her what she wants to do next. Money is no problem.” I wanted to be a journalist. I had this great belief in the power of the pen. I also wanted to move away from Marathi people for some time. I did journalism from a media college in Chennai and joined The Hindu. I travelled to many places, heard and reported many stories. I saw how lucky I was compared to some of the women I met during the course of my work. I got this job in the Mumbai Observer on the strength of those two years of experience.’

The two women sit in silence. Sharada takes the poem from Janaki’s hands. ‘I can’t put your story to melody and rhythm. You might fervently believe artists should not live in ivory towers, but every art form has its limitations. The nayikas of our music and dance suffer, at most, separation from their lovers or their infidelity. That’s it. Taking that tradition forward, we can at most show them angry with their lovers. Properly angry. Not mock angry, ready to forgive at the end of the song. But you and your mother simply can’t be the nayikas of our classical compositions. Even I will not take that liberty. But I think I can fit Indira Sant’s “Alone” into the mould.’

As Sharada mulls over this thought and Janaki watches her preoccupied face, the key turns in the lock and Shekhar enters with Shantanu sleeping on his shoulder. Janaki gets up instantly. ‘Sorry. I took up all your time with my story.’ She’s already slipped her feet into her chappals. Sharada touches her shoulder. ‘Your story was important. It helped me sort out my thoughts.’