Ashesh had stared in stunned silence at this adoration of man in life and life in man. He had felt Yogesh’s eyes fixed on him as he gazed at the painting. Then, as if at an unspoken signal, both turned away from it and stepped out into the living room. Yogesh had left the room abruptly, without a word, returning later with two mugs of tea. Ashesh didn’t know what he was going to say to Yogesh about the work except that it was stupendous.

‘As I was saying, I didn’t do any work there. But I saw a lot.’ Yogesh had broken the silence. ‘I literally lived in museums and galleries. What amazing work the old masters have done. Looking at Turner’s seascapes, what storms, I thought this is the ocean from which our fourteen jewels were churned out. Those waves, the ships poised between sailing and keeling over, and that light pouring down from some divine source, right in the middle of every painting. Would anyone dare label his work “realistic” or “nature study”? The paintings are pure vision. Don’t you think, sir, that the artist is looking beyond the ocean and the ships to tell us something about life?’

‘I do,’ Ashesh had replied eagerly. ‘But the physical phenomena themselves are solidly there, whatever abstractions they may point to. In that sense and that sense alone, Turner painted observed life. But I saw something in the Tate that took you beyond observed life. It was a work by Anish Kapoor. Its impact almost erased the memory of the Turners I’d seen earlier. It was a huge, flattish stone on the floor, comparatively low in height but nearly four feet wide. It was covered in Prussian-blue pigment, textured like fine rangoli powder. The colour was so luminous you felt every grain was infused with individual light. There was a hole carved into the boulder at the top. When you looked in, you saw nothing. The inside was sheer black. Who knows how deep the hole went. It was infinite like the zero. I couldn’t stop looking in, thinking that if I looked hard enough, I’d see into the womb of the earth.’

Yogesh had grown restless. He had got up, sat down, fiddled with a mug. His hand shook. ‘I felt lonely,’ he muttered. ‘Cold and alone.’ His eyes grew wet. ‘I could never relate to the work others were doing—personal memorabilia and stuff like that . . . I went to Amsterdam to see Shilpa. She has taken to the place. She has lots of friends. She’s doing wonderful work. She’s staying on. She’s got an extension on her fellowship. I saw her friends’ works. Hers. Some of it stirred me. But then again the unease, the distance. What was I to do?’