Bachchu Kaka is up in exactly twenty minutes. ‘Where are you taking me?’

She looks him in the eye. ‘Haridas.’

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘He must know what’s happened to Girji. He has been very disturbed.’

‘You tell him then.’

‘What if he wants information that I don’t have? Also, Girji has painted a picture on his wall. You must see it.’

‘Rubbish. These women don’t go painting other people’s walls. He’s fibbing.’

‘I’ve seen it, Kaka. The party he had last time you were here was to celebrate the painting.’

Bachchu Kaka says nothing. When Anima changes and comes out, he follows her with a stiff face.

‘How are you, madam?’ Ramprasad asks, doing a humble namaskar. ‘You’ve not been for some time.’ The aerial roots of the banyan tree frame him. The concrete platform around it is patterned with crow shit. Ramprasad’s expression is of a man relaxing in the gracious living room of an old-world mansion. His eyes turn to Bachchu Kaka. ‘May I know his good name?’

‘He’s my uncle. He’s from my home town.’ Anima hurries on but can’t stop Ramprasad from shouting out the latest news. ‘There’s some white madam staying there.’

Bachchu Kaka bristles. ‘Don’t expect me to be polite to him and all that. Or you go give him the information. I’ll have a chat with this whiskered fellow. He looks interesting.’

‘Kaka, you are free to talk to Haridas any which way you like. I only want you to tell him about Girji.’

Haridas has fixed his art-camp horn to his door. Children blow it all day as they come and go. Ashesh says it must be fun for the children, but what about his neighbours? ‘Neighbours?’ Haridas smirks. ‘They’ll soon give me synthesizers for Ganapati, drums for Navaratri and double atom bombs for Diwali. This is my humble contribution to the environment.’

‘But what about you? Doesn’t the horn bother you?’

‘Me? I’m a true-blue son of the soil. Our inner-ear systems are different from other people’s.’

Haridas’s door is ajar. Bachchu Kaka steps in and stands rooted to the spot. The wall before him is covered with Girji’s painting. He is so stunned, he doesn’t hear Haridas say twice, ‘Please sit.’

Finally he mutters, ‘I can’t believe this.’

‘I’d been asking her to do one for me for years. She only smiled. One day she said, “I’ll make a picture.” And she painted this.’

‘I can’t understand how she could have known.’

‘Known what?’

‘That they were going to kill her.’

‘They? Who? They what?’

‘That bhutali at the bottom.’

Bachchu Kaka then tells Haridas the terrible story. Haridas sinks to the floor. ‘What witchcraft? Girji? Our Girji?’ His voice is dry, his tone harsh.