Yogesh’s hands were trembling so badly now that Ashesh laid his own spontaneously on them. Yogesh made a sound in his throat and gripped them hard. His eyes were filled with appeal. Ashesh’s hands began to struggle like birds in a net. His body shrank away from the scream that he could see forming in the young man’s heart. He did not want to see it or hear it. A fear rose in him that Yogesh’s loneliness had the power to devour him whole. Yogesh hooded his gaze. He could hear Ashesh’s eyes, hands and body telling him something. He listened intently. Abruptly he let go of Ashesh’s hands. He had been leaning forward urgently in his chair. He sat back now. Then stood up.

Guilt had hit Ashesh hard. He had said quickly, ‘There are times when we feel desperately alone. But your work . . . that’s something else you know. Nothing like . . .’

Yogesh was watching him with eyes drained of light.

‘No, truly. Why else would you have got that fellowship? Painting still has a place in art. It will always have. You’ve shown that with this work. All kinds of practices and techniques will arrive, grab the centre for a while, then fade away. But painting will always remain. It’s taken centuries for the language to develop and grow rich. Artists will never stop speaking in it . . .’

Yogesh had made a show of listening but Ashesh saw he was elsewhere. He sat down again. Looked at his nails. Said, ‘Yes, sir’, and again, ‘Yes, sir’. He had lifted a mug to his lips. There was no tea in it. Then he had said with unexpected violence, his voice coming from some hollow cavity within, ‘I cannot live without painting. Everything that I see is colour. I desire the tactility of paint. I want to smear my body with paint. I want to be red and black. You look purple to me. That’s your inner colour.’ He stood up. ‘Will you have tea?’

‘No, thanks, really. I think I should be going.’

At the door Ashesh had said, ‘But I wanted to say something about this work of yours. It held me. But it also disturbed me in a way I can’t put my finger on. Perhaps . . .’

‘I could see that, sir,’ Yogesh had cut in.

The following day Yogesh had cut his wrist open. He was in the bathroom when his uncle and aunt returned. They rang, knocked, called to him. They realized that they had been locked out.