A line from a song begins to hum in Sharada’s mind. ‘Pag ghungroo bandh Meera nachi re.’ Meera tied bells on her ankles and danced alone. She danced without caring for the world. She danced even more fervently when her family and society rejected her. She danced all her life. If I sang Meera’s aloneness, would I not be singing the aloneness of Sant’s heroine, of Janaki, her mother and of the thousands of other women who must live alone in themselves? Sharada finds the answer to this question as she feeds Shantanu his curd and rice. No. Meera was never alone. Her dancing feet, her ankle bells, her ecstasy—all belonged to her eternal companion, Krishna. She and he were entwined—devotee and God.

Dinner over, Shekhar reads. Sharada watches her son with doting curiosity. He is completely absorbed in trying to pick a small scrap of paper off the floor between thumb and forefinger. It takes a lot of trying. Finally he has it. He goes round the room triumphantly, holding it up like a trophy. Then he drops it and tries to pick it up again. The game has been going on for a long time. Shekhar too puts his book aside and smiles at Shantanu. Sharada turns to him.

‘How’s Mamma?’

‘She says she’s fine. But she looks tired.’

‘Fever?’

‘Still low grade.’

‘Did you give her my message?’

‘I did.’

‘So?’

‘She made the usual answer: “When I feel I can’t manage by myself, I promise I’ll move in with you.”’

‘It would be enough even if she cut down on her social work. She doesn’t have to go to that stuffy office every day to listen to women’s tragic tales. Just doing that could give people a fever.’

‘I said all that, but she’ll do what she wants to.’

After a moment, Sharada says, ‘I don’t think I would stop singing if someone thought it would be good for me.’

Shantanu has picked up his scrap of paper again and is waving it in the air, shouting, ‘Baba, Baba.’

Shekhar claps. Shantanu runs round the room, stumbles, falls, gets up and is back with his scrap of paper.