‘Ten devout Parsis standing in a row on the beach are busy praying. One by one, nine finish their prayers. The tenth remains where he is, still muttering. The nine are upset at the thought that the tenth wants to appear more devout than them. They wonder what he could be praying so hard about. They inch forward to eavesdrop. And this is what they hear . . .’ Everybody round the table is looking at Burjor, mouths open in anticipation. Burjor looks lost for a moment, then says brightly, ‘Now you guess what the fellow is saying.’

Najoo looks exasperated. ‘He's forgotten again. Haath upar kar ni!’

Noshir intervenes quietly. ‘It's a joke from the last century. The tenth Parsi is repeating just one line through clenched teeth: “Sisterfucker, you gave it all to the Tatas, and nothing to me.”’

Burjor is thrilled. ‘You guessed right, dikra. Very good.’

‘It's an old joke.’ Noshir shrugs.

‘And it stinks,’ says Soonu.

Burjor laughs uproariously to cover up for the bad press.

They rise. Time to go. Shireen reminds Burjor of his part of the deal.

‘But I didn’t tell the joke. The joke is in the punchline. Noshir told it. Noshir, you go and propose to Meher.’ There are howls of protest and noisy byes as they leave.

Feroze sighs, throws himself into an armchair and closes his eyes. Haridas steps into his studio. There's a huge frame up on one side, covered with three pieces of canvas joined together. A stepladder stands before it. This is going to be the last and most difficult of Feroze's Krishna series. When Haridas comes out, Feroze has fallen asleep. Jijabhau gets him a cup of tea.

‘Is your bhajan meeting on this evening, Bhau?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘May I come and listen?’

Jijabhau is embarrassed. ‘Of course. I’ll tell you before we start.’

‘No need. I’ll hear you.’

Much later, solemn voices rise from the far end of the house.

When I saw your divine form happiness filled my heart . . .

Haridas walks out of the living room into a dark passage. He turns left into the kitchen at the end of the passage. Jijabhau's room is on the other side of the kitchen. Haridas inches the door open soundlessly. The muted light of the early evening sun slants into the room from the western window, throwing into relief the lines on the faces of the four men gathered in the room and the texture of the black sacred powder marking their foreheads. Haridas slides to the floor near the door and joins the refrain of the invocatory bhajan.

Our Vitthal, he is beautiful

Our Madhav, he is beautiful

The sprightly dhumali beat on the mridang fills the room with hope and joy. They sing:

You are the mother of compassion

You are the shelter of the poor

followed by,

I will serve you with all my soul

and finally,

His beautiful form stands on a brick.