Ashesh switches on the light. At once, the canvas standing on the easel leaps at him with a blank stare. It has been wordless for days. He has looked into its depths with pleading eyes, but not a single image has surfaced. It has remained a two by one and a half feet of desert. The canvas is not at fault. He is. His imagination has deserted him. That thing called inspiration hasn’t shown up. He's like slashed and burnt earth—no shoot or sprout in sight. He stands looking at the canvas with empty eyes, his mouth set. In the old days he’d have panicked. Pack-up time, he’d have told himself. Who said you’re an artist? Get yourself an art teacher's job in the old school in Surgaon.

He doesn’t despair quite so easily now. He has come to terms with the waywardness of the creative spirit. He is willing to wait.

Haridas once had a pet dog. Not by choice. It presented itself at his door one day and Haridas fed it. Then fed it the next day. When the dog felt secure in his ownership of the man, he began to reveal interesting shades of his personality. You put a dish of food before him and said, ‘Eat.’ He turned away and gazed into the distance. You coaxed and cajoled him. He remained disinterested. Then you said to yourself go to hell and moved away. At once he pounced on the food with relish. Creative ideas are like that. You don’t plead with them to come. You pretend you can live happily without them. Then they steal upon you like thieves. Just be alert to grab them by the hair when they do.

The empty canvas has begun to oppress Ashesh. He's tired. Fed up. He must take it off the easel. Stand it down, face against the wall. Why force a relationship that isn’t happening? Take a few days off. Go to Matheran, to Feroze's bungalow. Forget you’re an artist.

Ashesh switches off the light gloomily. The canvas looks innocuous in the semi-darkness, but wait, something's happened. Two thick diagonals have appeared on its face—one across the upper left corner, one across the lower right. Ashesh looks at them and then around, surprised. It's the light of the street lamp. His window bars have blocked it, casting the shadows.

Ashesh is suddenly alert. Something is happening in the space between the shadows. He's straining to catch what it is. Something is struggling to rise in his mind. It's coming. Yes, he can almost see it. Then it's gone. Lost. His mind goes totally blank. His shoulders droop. He throws himself into a chair, but springs up in alarm. The shadows are there today. Tomorrow morning they’ll be gone. This space in which an image was trying to insinuate itself will be irretrievably lost. It must be preserved.