Pandurang came running out when he saw Feroze at the gate. Dressed in a spotless dhoti, a long shirt and a white cap set at a slant, he was a vital part of Sylvania. Feroze drew much reassurance from his presence.

‘Bag?’ Pandurang asked, glancing at Feroze's empty hands. Feroze shook his head. ‘I’ll make do with what I have here.’ Pandurang's face shadowed over. ‘Frenybai is gone. Too sad. She was a mother-god to the poor.’ He pulled up the end of his dhoti and dabbed at his eyes. Sipping the hot, lemon-grass-scented tea that Pandurang had made for him, Feroze said, ‘Pavaiah and Janamma have gone back to their village.’

‘What now?’

‘Find me someone like you. Or you come.’

Feroze glanced at Pandurang's embarrassed face. ‘It's all right. I know you won’t come. It's like asking these trees to uproot themselves.’

Pandurang burst into an open laugh. ‘True. I’ll leave this place only to go up there.’

He scratched his head, hawked, took his time and said, ‘There is someone. A cousin. He was robbed in Bombay. He went back to the village. But his children are still at school and college. How much can he make on farming, Ferozedada? He's willing to do anything for his children's education. See if you want to try him out.’

That was Jijabhau, the man who has turned Feroze's house into a home again. His hospitality brings Feroze's friends to his place as a halfway house to events in South Mumbai. Painter and film-maker friends come from Thane and Kandivali and Dahisar. They eat, sleep and carry on.

Jijabhau is a Warkari. Naive man of God. Wouldn’t hurt an ant. He used to sell vegetables on the streets of Mumbai. One evening he returned from his day's work to find his room locked. The neighbours said, ‘Your partner has sold it. Didn’t you know? You didn’t get a share of the price? What will you do now?’ They had stared at him in disbelief. He had to be the only creature in the city not to have grown wise to its crooked ways after ten years of living there.

Long enduring and tenacious, Jijabhau had pushed himself for months. Sold vegetables all day. Lined up outside public toilets in the mornings, lain down on the footpaths at night. But there were ownership fights there too. He was driven away, sometimes by thugs who owned slices of pavements and sometimes by the police. Occasionally he got beaten up. Finally he returned to Chakan, his head bent low in shame. His elder son had asked, ‘What about my college?’ He was one year short of a bachelor's degree in commerce. Jijabhau had had no answer till Pandurang sent him a message. ‘If you’re willing to do housework, go to Mumbai. Ferozedada needs an honest man. The money will be good. You’ll be happy.’