Back home, Anima froths at the mouth over the whole corrupt conglomerate of politicians, the builders’ lobby and the police. Bachchu Kaka remembers Saguna and his heart feels utterly empty. ‘Get us some hot tea,’ he says, his voice thick. ‘Maybe that’ll cool you down,’ he adds and tries to laugh. Anima runs to the kitchen, all apology, while Bachchu Kaka’s eyes turn once again to Ashesh’s painting. The more he looks at it the more he feels he must have it, surprising himself. He has never been acquisitive. There are few possessions he wants to keep. The old wooden chair in his room in Chopade’s Chawl is one of them. That chair is a part of his life. The others make no difference. But he wants intensely to possess this picture. It’s a simple picture of a woman sitting astride a brown bicycle against a background of speckled green. The front wheel of the bicycle is turned a little towards the viewer. The woman’s body is hunched, her neck stretched. She concentrates every ounce of energy on getting where she wants to go. The loose end of her turmeric-yellow sari is tucked firmly in at the waist. Her minutely detailed red print blouse has slipped a little off her right shoulder.

When Anima comes back with the tea, Bachchu Kaka says, ‘You think that idiot will give me a picture like this? I’ll return it to him in my will. Won’t let it fall into anybody else’s hands.’

‘Why don’t you take this one, Kaka, since you like it so much.’

‘You mean that?’ Bachchu Kaka’s eyes light up like a child’s. Anima is moved. What is it in this picture that this man, so devoid of material temptations, finds so compelling?

Anima observes Bachchu Kaka as they sip their tea. ‘There’s something on your mind,’ she says. ‘What is it?’

‘You said you’d come to Surgaon soon. You haven’t been. You have no idea what’s going on there.’