The poetry of saints has lived on people's tongues for seven hundred years. Tukaram's abhangs, once drowned in the river by envious men, floated up and spread through the length and breadth of Maharashtra. A cherished treasure, an unbroken tradition of devotion, the very foundation of people's lives. These four men belong to that tradition. One is a porter at the railway terminal, one a vegetable seller, one a peon in a government office and one the sole pillar of a Parsi artist's household. They sing the final five prayers and their voices rise in the ecstatic culminating chant of ‘Vitthal-Rakhumai’. They rise and touch each other's feet—each one a devotee, each one Vithoba.

When Haridas comes out into the living room, his mind is churning with ideas. Feroze has woken up. Haridas does not wish to talk. He lifts his hand in farewell and lets himself out of the house.

10

Anima's eyes haven’t moved from the protuberance of the woman's stomach. The woman is sitting across from her and Anima is staring at her stomach. Every time the train stops with a jolt, Anima's concern for the baby rises. It is sure to be fine floating in its shock-absorbing amniotic fluid. That's the miracle of the way a woman's body is constructed—built to protect the embryo from the knocks she takes in life. Anima has not experienced the magic. The pain of waiting ended with Siddharth. Then she thought bitterly, good we didn’t bring a child into this jungle.

When the train jolts to a halt at Bandra, the woman gets up and hurries to the door. A horde of women makes for the compartment. As they rush in, the woman manages to slither out. Anima twists her neck to watch her cutting through the crowd towards the exit. Why does she take these risks at this stage of pregnancy?

‘You want to know why?’ the woman might say if she heard Anima's unspoken question. ‘My man's at home sleeping. Drunk. When he gets up he’ll beat me. I’m going to my mother's to keep the baby safe.’

‘You want to know why?’ the woman might say. ‘The man tells me the child isn’t his. Take it to your lover boy. I don’t have a lover boy. I’m going to ask my old employer for work and shelter.’

‘You want to know why?’ the woman might say. ‘When I got pregnant, he went after another woman. Now he's brought her home. My brother says leave him. And where will I stay? In his small hut with his wife and kids? I’ll stay with him for a bit, then go back. Learn to live with the other one.’