Shankar: ‘Yeah, sure, but them devotees are a pest. Give me this, give me that. No contentment.’

Anna: ‘I tell you, Shankarrao, you must learn to conjure up holy ash from your sleeve. That’ll thrill them. See how it rains money in your house then.’

Shankar would laugh and concentrate on cutting what was left of Anna's hair. The massage followed. Ashesh can still hear its oily pit-pat, pit-pat on Anna's head. Framroze too must have been Shankar's client in his better days. There's an ease between them that comes of habit. Shankar cuts Framroze's hair while he sews. But he turns his head exactly as the pressure of Shankar's hands indicates. The hairstyle too must belong to Framroze's early days. The hair is combed forward and the ends flicked up to look like the foaming crest of a wave poised atop Framroze's high forehead. Shankar picks up his kit wordlessly and moves on to his next job. There's no giving or taking of money.

Ashesh turns left again and his pace slows automatically. This is Laburnum Road. It is his favourite. Flanked by its old laburnum trees, totally covered by hanging clusters of yellow flowers in May, so thick that they cast a lemon light on the ground, the road is most specially marked by the historic building that stands at No. 19. Radiant symbol of peace, it is also the birthplace of the rousing cry, ‘Do or die.’ For Ashesh, to spend a few moments each morning looking at this elegant bungalow is to begin the day auspiciously. His mind at peace, he then turns into Tejpal Lane, walks around Gowalia Tank garden and sets off for home.

Somewhere along the road he feels a hard something underfoot. It is a pod of gunj seeds. The gunj is the minimum unit used by goldsmiths to weigh gold. He looks around for the tree that has dropped it, but can’t recognize it amongst the others. Back home he runs his thumbnail along the seam of the pod, eager to see and feel the textures and colours within. There it is—a velvety, green-yellow case with four compartments. Nestling snugly in each is a polished red seed with a black eye. He cannot look long enough at that plump, saturated red—the colour of a parrot's beak. He cannot feel enough the satin smoothness of each globule. Finally, Ashesh closes his fist over the seeds and drops them one by one into a glass bowl, there to find their way, small and brashly bright, amongst his collection of amethysts, mother-of-pearl and delicately veined agates.

Ashesh has been dialling Anima's number repeatedly and finding the line engaged. Finally he's through.

‘Who were you talking to this long?’

‘Sharada. About her concert. It's on Saturday.’

‘So?’

‘She's planning to sing something of her own.’

‘That’ll be the end of her.’

‘She's worried. But excited.’

‘Good. Just a request . . .’

‘You will visit Ai again next Saturday, right?’