Feroze is lying in bed, still wide awake with no sign of sleep. He gets out of bed, sorts through his CDs and finds the one he is looking for. Years ago, a cousin had spent her own money to cut a disc of her self-composed ghazals and distributed copies to the family as New Year’s gifts. Feroze had played it once to be fair to her and discovered there was neither throb nor pain in the songs supposedly about love. And had fallen peacefully asleep in his chair as he listened to it. When he woke up, he had put away the valuable CD carefully for future use. There it is now. He slips it into the CD tray, presses the play button on the player, switches off the lights, lies down on his bed and is soon fast asleep.

On 31 December, the friends leave separately for Matheran. Haridas is in his Mercedes with Maya beside him and a Nepali cap on his head. Maya has almost finished her work in Mumbai. She has been commissioned to make short films on ten of the world’s most exciting cities, to document the changes they have undergone with globalization. Mumbai is now done. Maya has concentrated on what was once known as Girangaon, village of mills. This large expanse of land in central Mumbai, where the city’s textile mills once stood, has now been taken over by malls and high-end residential towers.

‘You know something, Maya,’ Haridas says. ‘I’m about to give birth to a fantastic idea. Will you sell me copies of your stills? Or is the copyright with your sponsor?’

‘No, it’s with me.’

‘Then let me buy a dozen or so of them please. I’ll use them to make paintings. But I won’t exhibit the paintings as paintings.’

‘What then?’

‘Listen. In the old days bioscopewallahs used to roam the streets of the city. Wherever they set up their bioscopes, eager children would crowd around to take a look. The machines were colourful with a toy monkey on top which played a pair of cymbals when it was wound up. For a couple of paise a piece, the children could put their eye to the eyehole and see pictures sliding by while the man sang descriptions of the sights. Why can’t I have a bioscope made, fit it with magnifying lenses, paint the outside and show my Girangaon paintings on it? Go back to old media instead of forward to the new.’

Haridas whistles a happy tune although Maya has not agreed to sell him the stills and is even doubtful about the idea.

Feroze picks up Anima. Even this early in the morning, cars creep bonnet to tail in both directions along the city’s arterial roads. Jijabhau takes the container Anima is carrying as she gets into the front seat. ‘What have you brought?’