Sharada waves to Shantanu from the veranda. If it rains, her first student will most likely not turn up, Sharada thinks, setting up the room for her lessons and feeling guilty that the thought pleased her. When she comes out on to the veranda again, the sky has changed colour. It is about to stage an epic drama. The lights have dimmed. Curtains of cloud have descended. In the wings, a wind growls.

Kishori Tamhane emerges from the house next door. Her husband doesn’t live here. He has a job in Sharjah. She lives alone, handling home, children, illnesses and homework. She looks up at the sky as she steps out of the building. A plump drop of rain falls on her face. She smiles and jerks her head to shake it off. She looks up again to gauge whether she needs to open her umbrella or if this is just a light drizzle that will pass. The sky isn’t all cloud yet. A thin ray of sun struggles out to land at her feet. Kishori shrugs and walks out briskly. But she has barely gone ten paces when the few blue streaks in the sky disappear and the rain comes slanting down. Within seconds, her hair is plastered to her head and drops of water are streaming down her face.