She nods in a daze. He lifts his white robe a little to prevent it from catching the dirt off the floor and sinks into her visitor’s chair, settling his silk gold-bordered shoulder cloth firmly on his shoulder. His hair flows down to the neck of his robe. The gold links in the string of rudrakshas he wears glint in the light.

‘What’s all this, Prakash?’

‘Prakashanand.’ He beams. ‘I’ve been granted deeksha by Swami Shivanand. I am now with him.’

‘And your painting?’

‘It’s taken off in a big way. I do spiritual paintings. Bindu, chakra, kundalini. Those things sell like hot cakes abroad. Once I do my solo show here, I’ll start selling here too. Feroze sir advised me to go to Sumitraben. I touch his feet in my mind every day.’

‘You’re having a solo show?’

‘Sure. That’s why I’m here. I had to meet your editor for pre-publicity. I told him you were the best person to write about me. Your owner is Sumitraben’s cousin, you know. Sumitraben is sponsoring the show. So now you can write about me without any problem.’

Janaki doesn’t know what to say.

‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea somewhere if you’re not too busy?’

‘No, no, no,’ Janaki protests. ‘I have a deadline to meet in an hour.’

‘So I shouldn’t eat into your time, right? No problem. We’ll meet for the interview. That’ll be some time next month.’

‘Who was that?’ Suryakanta asks, hurrying over to Janaki’s desk.

‘Prakash Jadhav, artist on the make.’ Janaki leans back in her chair, shaking her head.

Her cell rings. Ashesh. Janaki’s hand goes instinctively to her hair to tidy it. How stupid. He can’t see her. Ashesh sounds excited. ‘Are you writing that piece about Girji’s work? I’ve just found my book on Warli art which has a painting by Balu Dumara. It shows bhutalis being chased by an exorcist with a whip. The interesting thing is that these bhutalis’ hair stands up around their head like sunrays. But Girji’s bhutali . . .’

‘. . . has hair like all the other women, sticking out at the back of her head like a tuft.’

‘Correct. Now, if we’re saying Warli paintings are bound by strict conventions of representation, think what this departure might imply.’ ‘That the woman who’s being lynched is not a bhutali at all, but innocent, like the other women in the pada.’ Janaki’s voice is excited.

‘That’s it.’ There is a long silence as Janaki mulls over the possibility.

‘Want me to hang up?’

‘Why?’

‘Then continue in silent communication?’

‘Sorry.’ Janaki laughs. ‘Prakash was here just now.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Who is this Sumitraben?’

‘A wheeler-dealer. They say she likes young men.’

‘She likes Prakash all right! He’s become the disciple of some swami.

He wears a robe and does spiritual paintings.’