Janaki is now persuading herself to write the second story. Two years ago, in 2002, Tyeb Mehta’s painting Celebration sold for a crore and a half rupees at a Christie’s auction in New York. The owner of the Mumbai Observer has let it be known that he would like an informative piece that traces the impact of this event on the contemporary art market, perhaps even on contemporary art itself. She has found all the information she requires on the net, but there’s a resistance within her to the material. Her mind is like a mule. Won’t budge. The art market is an aspect of the art world she cannot muster enthusiasm for. It’s a middle-class thing, she knows. The romantic view of art that wants to keep it safe from the touch of filthy lucre. But she must chew on her resistance and swallow it. Five hundred words shouldn’t be difficult.

Indian art has finally found its place on the international map. The big event that marked its arrival was the record price that Tyeb Mehta’s work Celebration fetched in 2002 in New York at a Christie’s auction. Contemporary Indian art has not looked back since. In March this year, in New York again, the iconoclast Francis Newton Souza’s work, Mystic Repast, sold for a whopping lakh and thirty thousand dollars in a Sotheby’s auction. Twelve more auctions are scheduled to take place during the rest of the year. The Indian art market is expected to see a turnover of eleven crore dollars in this period. This expected turnover will be fourteen times more than that during a similar period in 1996. Speaking only of Bengali artists, a Rabindranath Tagore work fetches 5343 rupees per square inch, an Abanindranath fetches 4903 per square inch and an A.R. Chugtai fetches 3518 per square inch. Despite these dazzling figures, experts are of the opinion that Indian art has . . .

‘Madam, the boss wants to see you.’ The editor’s peon, Raghunath Uttekar, is standing at her desk fiddling with her stapler. She completes typing the sentence: ‘. . . miles to go before we can say it has arrived.’

‘What’s up now?’ she asks Uttekar.

‘Don’t know. There’s a woman there and a swami baba in a long robe.’ Something goes ting in Janaki’s head.

Janaki knocks on Mr Singh’s door. ‘May I come in?’

His voice booms from inside like a drum. ‘Yes, yes.’

Sumitraben and Prakash sit facing him, their backs to her.

Mr Singh says, pointing towards Prakash, ‘I believe you know each other since childhood.’ Janaki nods and smiles.