His body is utterly bewildered. It can’t find its way to her. She takes him in hand and leads him in. As he enters her, Prakash understands what it is to be male. He is no longer Prakash. He is simply and purely an enormous, spontaneous force concentrated in one organ of his body. The force explodes. Flames lick up into his entire body. For a few seconds then, he is nobody, nothing. He is some unknown creature divested of all strength and will. When he returns to himself, when he recognizes Prakash’s feet and Prakash’s hands, his stomach churns, pushing vomit into his throat. He stands up trembling, pulls the first garment that comes to hand over his nakedness and turns his face to the wall.

‘That’s my sari.’ Sumitraben laughs. ‘See how difficult it is to know and accept your body. The soul is not even in sight.’

‘I don’t want to know anything. All this is filth. You’re like a mother to me. I’m going.’

Prakash throws off the sari as though it were a burning coal and gets into his own clothes. He hurries towards the door without looking at Sumitraben. She watches him with a mild smile. ‘Take the books that Swamiji has left for you. Read them carefully.’ He turns around. She is still naked. For a moment he wants to refuse the books. But she says, ‘Come tomorrow at five o’clock. We’ll discuss your work then.’

‘Work?’

‘Swamiji wants three paintings by the end of the month. Small ones. He wants to take them to America. He wants you to paint the subjects he has suggested.’

‘But . . .’

‘There’s plenty of money in this. You must also cultivate an image now. Grow your hair a little. Swamiji has suggested a dhoti-jhabbashoulder-cloth get-up.’

Prakash’s mind is in a whirl. He mechanically takes the books from Sumitraben’s hands, executes a formal smile and rushes out.

There’s a strong wind blowing from the sea. It buffets Prakash from behind, pushing him to the end of the road before giving up the chase. Prakash has no idea where he is going. He walks blindly, the string of rudrakshas swinging from his neck with every step he takes.

23

She has just put the mixture of gram flour and buttermilk on the gas burner when the doorbell rings. ‘Just the right moment,’ Anima mutters and continues to stir the mixture as though she hasn’t heard the bell. It’s done in a minute. She takes the pan off the flame and spreads the batter thin on the back of a steel plate, so thin that the metal shows through. The bell rings a second time. Anima wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and hurries to the door. It is Bachchu Kaka.

‘How long? Were you sleeping?’

‘Sleeping, Kaka? Haridas is throwing a party. Something special, he said. So I was just . . .’