The owner first heaps the expected abuse on the editor’s head and then asks him to sack the news editor. The editor tells the owner it is not the news editor’s fault but the chief sub’s. The news editor tells the editor that however hot-headed the chief sub is, even inept and cantankerous at times, in the balance the man’s on our side when there’s worker trouble. The person who is really responsible for the entire mess, the root cause of the whole problem, is the one who should be thrown out. And you know who that is.

The editor sends for Janaki and hands her a letter of dismissal. She stands before him, her mouth hanging open. ‘The owner is angry because it was your article that caused the riot. He was already unhappy about your intellectual writing. I had assured him that I was grooming you to become more reader friendly. But then you went and did this.’

‘But you read the piece and passed it, sir. You even praised me for writing such a balanced piece on a sensitive subject.’

‘I would still say so. But however balanced the piece of writing, if people don’t see it that way, it means trouble. I’ve been warning you all along. Our readers don’t deserve this kind of writing. Give them something that appears thoughtful but is nicely fluffy and we’re safe. Anyway,’ an arch smile breaks on his face, ‘there’s talk in the office that you’re planning to get married. You don’t need this job. With an artist husband who sells well, money won’t be a problem. And with a home to take care of, you’ll have your hands full. You can always freelance. I can sneak you in once in a while when things cool down.’

Janaki nails him with her eyes, raises the letter of dismissal like a flag, says thank you and walks out. She sits at her desk, emptying out the drawers of her table. The phone rings. Like a character in a Marathi commercial play, she looks at it as if it’s going to bite her before answering it. If this is one of those persistent mediocrities asking for publicity, she’ll happily tell him the arts section of the Mumbai Observer is dead and no amount of painting or singing will revive it.

It is Ashesh. ‘Ai’s gone,’ he says. Janaki can hear the effort it costs him to keep his voice steady. ‘Early this morning. Anima and I are going, so we can’t meet this evening.’

Janaki’s tongue goes dry. ‘May I come?’

‘You won’t get leave.’

‘I’ve been given permanent leave.’