The Mumbai monsoon has been inaugurated. Anima closes the sliding doors of the veranda. They will remain closed for the next three months. The wind howls round the building, finding its way in through cracks. It rams into the gulmohr tree, whipping the last flowers off its branches. The flowers twirl helplessly in the air to fall sodden and exhausted on the ground. Ashesh leans out of the window to feel the wind on his face. There is already a large pool of water in the narrow yard below. Thumb-thick raindrops dance on it. A postman wades through the pool to enter the building. His umbrella serves no purpose. His trousers are drenched up to the knees.

Anima comes out with two mugs of steaming tea. ‘Ever heard of our postmen going on strike?’ Ashesh asks.

‘No, now that you ask.’ Anima shakes her head in surprise.

‘We should honour them, not take them for granted.’

‘Why postmen all of a sudden?’

‘One just entered the building.’

The doorbell rings.

‘That’s probably him.’

The handwriting on the envelope makes Anima frown. ‘It’s from Ai.’ She tears the envelope open and quickly runs her eye down the page. ‘But it’s not her handwriting inside.’ She reads some of it a little more carefully. ‘Not her words either.’

‘Will you read it out, not just mutter to yourself?’

Anima reads.

Dear Nima and Ashesh,

You will be surprised to see a letter from me and even more surprised to read its contents. You may not have realized it on your occasional visits, but Surgaon is no longer the quiet town of your childhood, surrounded by chiku orchards and scented with mogra flowers. We no longer see the quiet, long-enduring people of the old town. The winds that are blowing over the rest of the country have touched this town too.

It has been many years since that stipulated period of seven years after your father left us has elapsed. He was then legally assumed to be no more. What had been mine already in accordance to his will, then became mine by legal right.

Over recent years I have found it increasingly difficult to look after the house and property. It is no longer easy to find reliable servants. When Bachchu Kaka visited a few days ago, he asked why the Gandhi mandir looked so uncared for. It made me angry that he should ask. He knows many people in the Warli padas. It was he who found the mother–daughter pair for one of your friends in Mumbai. But not once has he offered to find me a replacement for Rama and his wife.