A middle-aged woman standing near them turns around to look at him with interest. She has the air of a senior queen in a royal household. She wears a long-sleeved, embroidered blouse and a fine sari the colour of latte. The end of the sari is drawn over her head and stays mysteriously put. A string of large, lustrous pearls hugs her neck.

‘Your turn.’

‘I am . . . a journalist.’

‘Don’t tell me. Which paper?’

Janaki mumbles, ‘Mumbai Observer.’

The senior queen quickly turns her eyes on Janaki. While appearing to continue her conversation with a man, made entirely of grease head to toe, her ears are busy picking up what they can of Janaki and Prakash's conversation.

‘You mean you’re the Janaki Patil who's written about Haridas sir? This must be his twelfth interview in the last year. How does he manage it? But you’re something, hunh!’

‘How?’

‘Would anybody have thought that Janaki Patil of Kolhapur would shine in a big Mumbai paper? It's great for me. I’m doing a joint show with three fellow alumna in a new gallery. You’ll give us publicity, no?’ Janaki is instantly wary. ‘Two of the chaps are known a little. I’m the most unknown. A little publicity would get us a trickle of visitors. An artist is nothing without the media, no? One critic said he’d write but I can’t afford his rate. You’ll do a perfect job, knowing me so well . . . my childhood, my grandfather. I’ll bring my portfolio over to show you. I used to do portraits, you remember that? I could do them blindfold even now. But critics aren’t interested in portraits. So guess what I’m doing? Abstracts!’

Janaki looks at him helplessly. ‘Prakash, that's not how it works. The editor decides what, when and about whom I should write. Sometimes the owners decide. They like big names in their paper.’

‘Chhah,’ Prakash is disgusted. ‘This is a mess. You need the media to make a name; but the media will not look at you unless you are a name.’

‘Sorry, Prakash, but I promise to see your show.’ The crowd has started moving into the auditorium. Janaki shuffles after it. Back in her seat she glances at Prakash. He looks crestfallen. ‘Don’t let it get you down,’ she says kindly. ‘Today's big names had a pretty rough time before it got better.’

‘It was different then,’ Prakash says shaking his head. ‘We are under pressures that they knew nothing of. Let it go. We’ll meet later.’

Pancholi invites Sadashiv Bapat to present his thoughts on art and how they are reflected in his work. As he rises, he begins to swell and colour. His body sparks with an electric charge. He finds it difficult to keep still. He raises his hand dramatically, a sign that he is going to make an important statement.