Anima turns the woman's voice off and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, a woman in her early thirties has squeezed into the pregnant woman's place. She has opened a book and is poring over it. Anima leans forward most impolitely to look at the title. The world of books operates under a cultural system that accommodates such curiosity and includes the tradition of not returning borrowed books. Anima's curiosity is entirely justified. If she has read the book the woman is reading, they’ll have an interesting conversation. From such a conversation might even spring a friendship.

The young woman is aware of Anima's curiosity. She smiles sweetly and says, ‘The Time of My Life by—’

‘Krishen Khanna.’

‘How do you . . .’

‘I’m from that world.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My brother's an artist. He gave me the book two years ago for my birthday.’

‘Brother?’

‘Ashesh Joshi.’

‘Oh.’ There's a long pause. ‘I bought it because it is about the old art world—friendships—Padamsee, Souza, Husain . . .’

‘Are you an artist?’

‘No. I edit a so-called art section.’

‘Newspaper?’

‘Mumbai Observer.’

‘You’re not Janaki Patil of the Haridas article, are you?’

The woman looks surprised. ‘Yes.’

‘We loved it. Didn’t get taken in one bit by his drama. But don’t let me keep you from your book.’

Janaki bends over her book again but, on second thoughts, closes it.

‘I’d like to interview your brother some day.’

‘Have you ever come across one?’

‘One what?’

‘An interview? He doesn’t have what it takes. He doesn’t talk much. He is very private and doesn’t do flamboyant work.’

‘I try to do serious stories. Whenever I’m allowed to.’

Both women get off at Churchgate.

‘Where are you headed?’ Janaki asks.

‘Sharada Sakhardande's concert.’

‘Are we in a Hindi film? This is the second coincidence.’

‘You too?’

‘Yes.’

They walk down Marine Drive. They could have taken the Oval Maidan route to Chavan Centre. But walking along the Arabian Sea at sundown is a chance not to be missed.

‘The evening light is so lovely,’ Anima remarks. ‘Like a mother's touch.’

‘The imagined mother.’

Janaki's voice is dry.

‘Many mothers have a tender touch,’ Anima defends her sentiment.

‘So I hear.’

‘They’ve endured much but love the world.’

‘So I’ve read. Never met one of them.’

‘Meet Sharada's mother-in-law.’

‘You mean you know Mrs Sakhardande?’

‘She and her husband are part of our group.’

‘Will you introduce me to her?’

‘You want to interview her?’

‘Perhaps. But I also want to learn from her. I heard her in Kolhapur. I loved her music. Of course . . . that is . . . if she has the time.’

‘Have you learnt before?’

‘With this voice? Haven’t dared. But I want to try.’