‘Why not? The titbit is nice. Big eyes. Big boobs. Voice is a little husky. Sexy.’

‘The hunt is on?’

‘Hunt? Only subtle signals.’

‘Sniffing?’

‘Son of Surgaon, get your sur right. You sniff at fine wine before you savour it. Are you coming to Feroze's on Sunday?’

‘Why?’

‘It's his birthday. Let's go. I’ll give him this. He may not accept it. But at least he’ll appreciate it, unlike you. Plus I’ll get to see a few lines on his canvas unlike yours.’

Ashesh grabs Haridas's shoulders. Pushing him towards the easel, he stands him before the canvas. ‘Now talk.’

Haridas looks at the black-and-grey work closely. ‘Thank God you’re free.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Isn’t that enough? For now? This isn’t going to stop here. It's only the beginning. Black doesn’t let go of you that easily.’

The friends stand before the canvas. They stand looking deep into it. Haridas has said what Ashesh already suspected: this is a new beginning.

Haridas leaves. As usual, a gaggle of children crowd around his red Mercedes. They stare curiously at the object in his hand as he walks down to the car. He passes it around for them to take turns blowing it. He looks up at Ashesh with a false smile of apology before driving away.

6

Feroze Banatwala's house has become a railway station after his mother's death. Anybody can come, spend time, have tea, leave. Jijabhau is there to look after their needs. Feroze need not bother about playing the host while he's around. He can keep to his studio, paint, read, snooze. Jijabhau is the real host of the establishment. Feroze is the master of the house only in name. When Burjor Uncle drops in, he often sits with Jijabhau in his room, has tea, asks if Najoobai has visited, says goodbye and leaves.