The night is black, the water pitcher black; black too are the waters of the Yamuna, oh mother

My head-shawl is black, my crystal bracelet black; black too are the pearls round my neck, oh mother

I am black, my choli is black, black too is the drape of my sari, oh mother

I must not come to the water alone; send the dark god with me, oh mother

Vishnubhakt Namdeo’s goddess is black; and blacker than all is Lord Krishna, oh mother.

Ashesh looks at Janaki, eyes dark with excitement. ‘Do you see a flat, final black in this picture? Look at the shades and textures of black we have here. And the different densities of her crystal bracelet and her pearl necklace. Her choli is one texture, the clay water pitcher, another. It is endless. Will you sit for me?’

Janaki starts. ‘Sit for you? To do what?’

He leans forward and puts his hand on her knee. ‘Please. If I can manage to paint this picture, it’ll free me of black. I’ll have said everything I want to about the colour. I don’t know what form the painting will take. It could be a portrait. Please . . . I can’t do this without a sitter . . . you.’

Janaki knows this work he is thinking of is not about her. She mustn’t think it is. It’s a painting about a colour. So why is she feeling embarrassed? She nods slowly. He is ecstatic. He pulls her off the chair and takes her in his arms. She rests in his embrace for a few minutes. Then they forget the world, flow into each other and merge.

The doorbell rings. Ashesh reluctantly disentangles himself from her, muttering, ‘That must be Anima. I’ll get the door. Will you make tea?’

His compact body is bursting with energy. He walks to the door on springs. He throws an affectionate arm round Anima’s shoulder. The sight of his happy face brings a smile through the worry on hers. Janaki comes out with tea which they sip in silence. Anima looks at Janaki. The buttons of her shirt are in the wrong buttonholes.

‘Ai is not at all well,’ Anima says. ‘Bachchu Kaka called.’

‘Shall we go tomorrow?’ Ashesh asks promptly.

‘We really should.’

The leaves of the peepul tree rustle wildly and soon it is raining hard.

‘Do you have a picture of your mother? What is she like?’ Janaki asks.

‘Beautiful,’ says Ashesh.

‘Was,’ Anima says sadly. ‘She’s very thin now. The last time I saw her, she looked terribly frail. She didn’t say much. Didn’t make any of her regular complaints. We should bring her here, Ashesh. Let Haresh see her. Or the doctor he recommended to you.’

Ashesh is silent, thinking. Then Janaki says, ‘Who is Bachchu Kaka? Not your blood uncle, is he?’

‘He’s a monster,’ Ashesh says, making a face.