‘Yes, yes. Then he got the local artists to lay their red-earth plaster over them. It gave the plaster a special texture and if you look closely, you’ll see bits of the old manuscript peeping through the plaster where it is thin. See? Obviously you can’t read those bits, but what the sacred words are doing is setting up this flow of positive energy. It will enter the bodies, minds and hearts of the devotees who come here to pray. We believe it will bring them an osmotic understanding of Lord Ram that no amount of teaching or reading will give them.’

Dr Bhaskar watches their faces for reactions with a gracious smile. The expression reminds Ashesh of a folk tale in which the king would come into his court, sit on his throne and say, ‘We are now ready to receive your gifts.’ Dr Bhaskar notices that they are not as impressed as they should have been with either the temple or his words and begins to move towards the house. Gesturing towards Janaki, he says, ‘We haven’t met.’

‘Janaki Patil,’ Anima says, putting all her will into not sounding noticeably uncivil.

‘The journalist? Yes. Akka has told me about her. I believe she is now part of the family?’

Dr Bhaskar raises his eyebrows archly. Ashesh clamps his mouth shut. Dr Bhaskar addresses Janaki. ‘We have only just begun this work, thanks to their mother’s generosity. But in time, young lady, you will see things here that will make exciting stories. This temple is going to attract devotees from all over the country. It is set to become an important place of pilgrimage.’ Flashing a smile, he adds, ‘One day you will tell your friends and relatives with pride that you were here for the inauguration.’ Dr Bhaskar folds his hands and points them to the staircase leading to Sindhutai’s room.

Ashesh and Anima climb the stairs with dread in their hearts. Janaki follows, wondering what she is doing there. Sandhya steps out of Sindhutai’s room and leads them in. Sindhutai is sitting in a chair, her head lolling to one side. The skin on her neck hangs loose. Her arms are like sticks. The sleeves of her gold-embroidered choli of magenta and green shot silk look empty. But her stomach bulges out under her green nine-yard sari. She senses their entry, lifts her head a few inches and opens her closed right fist. ‘I won’t wear this just yet. It’s too heavy.’ In her palm lies an opulent nose ornament studded with pearls, emeralds and rubies. She doesn’t recognize them nor, in a sense, do they recognize her. They need to tell themselves she is their mother and they her children.