Feroze sees danger in his arrangement with Sanket. ‘Make sure you’re not taken for a ride. This fellow could be a fly-by-night crook. These new galleries are crass business ventures. The youngsters are savvy—business, media, networking. But, you saala, you’re a Warli.’ Feroze has been with one of the oldest private galleries in the city. It’s a little lackadaisical in business but above board. There’s a mutual love–respect relationship between him and the gallery owner. Most importantly, the owner understands and loves art.

When Ashesh enters Sanket, he feels he is in someone else’s home. The walls on which his paintings hang are brash, unmellowed by memories. The Jehangir walls felt warm in a very personal way. His paintings looked right there. When he stood around in that gallery, he never felt like an exhibit. He could create a fiction about being a passer-by who happened to have dropped in casually like others did. He was free to stand and stare without being attacked by false smiles and routine reactions.

At Sanket, Kapoor and his assistant are all over him. He is to be looked after, made much of. ‘Hasn’t Miss Patil come?’ The inquiry is unctuous not because Janaki is his friend but because she is the media.

Kapoor smiles all the time. ‘Everything is under control,’ he assures him. Except me, Ashesh thinks. There’s a huge ball of something heavy rolling around in his stomach. It’s like the first day of exams. He relaxes only after Anima and Janaki come.

On the wall directly opposite the entrance hang the four paintings in black, People, Soldier, The Red and the Black and Woman. Haridas has seen the first three. He now stands looking at Woman. He narrows his eyes. The skin on his cheeks trembles imperceptibly. He walks over to Ashesh, puts his hand on his shoulder, looks at him for a couple of seconds, nods and moves on. Ashesh is filled with joy. Janaki watches from a distance, envious of the silent exchange between the two old friends. Ashesh notices her look. He moves to her side in two quick steps and puts an arm lightly around her waist.

Ashesh feels surprisingly comfortable as the evening proceeds, chiefly because the press photographers are not interested in him. They flash their bulbs at the celebrities Kapoor has invited to the show. Neither are the press reporters interested in him. The English-language press is there because it’s a ‘do’ that will go into the gossip columns of their newspapers. They stare at the celebrities, chat with them, honour the wine served by the host and hurry away. The Marathi- and Hindi-language press pick up copies of the catalogue from which they will extract a few lines for their reports.