‘You will continue to get my guidance. But for the first time you have attended an important seminar. You heard many opinions. You are young. Your mind is bound to be stirred.’

‘No, sir. I see my future in following your path.’

Bapat executes a modest smile, reassured. Ashesh has not said a word. Bapat lifts his hand in farewell and moves on, his hand resting in fatherly fashion on Abhijeet's shoulder.

‘What was all that about?’ Anima asks. Ashesh shrugs.

‘Never mind. What are we doing now? I’m not interested in Mr Shah's cocktails and dinner.’

‘Let's go to the Udipi's. Feroze said he’ll join us.’ Anima looks at Janaki. Prakash is hovering behind her. Deeply embarrassed, she introduces him to Ashesh. ‘Prakash would like to show you his work some day.’

Ashesh, liking Janaki's husky voice, says, ‘Certainly. Any time.’

Prakash is encouraged. ‘I was wondering . . . I mean if there's nothing private . . . in the sense all these things we heard, I’m confused . . . could I ask . . . I mean while things are still fresh in my mind?’

‘We are about to have a snack-dinner. Do you want to join us? But I only listen. I don’t give advice.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Janaki is now totally crushed with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean to inflict . . .’ But how can she complete the sentence when Prakash is right there. Just then Feroze, who's been talking to the senior queen, hurries over. ‘Saala Ashesh, you spoke today. We must celebrate. I’ll stand you bun-maska.’ He slaps Ashesh on the back. Feroze has never grown a moustache. But looking at him, Anima thinks a moustache would make a perfect line between his hooked nose and his well-shaped upper lip. Feroze turns to Prakash. ‘I don’t know you; but Sumitraben wants you to call her. Here's her card.’

Prakash falls into a state of total confusion. He doesn’t know what to do with the card that's been thrust into his hand. He changes hands then changes them again. The card falls. He picks it up. He looks at Feroze, stutters for a while, then asks, ‘Who's she?’

‘It's on the card. Now put the card in your pocket,’ Anima suggests softly. Prakash stuffs the card in his pocket without reading the name. They look at him. ‘I don’t know her,’ he explains.

‘You will. Just call her. Don’t worry. She is a dedicated patron of promising new talent. She’ll ensure your future. Call her without fear. Who's for bun-maska?’

‘We’re going to the Udipi's. You’re coming with us,’ Anima says firmly.

‘Udipi? Boring. But in a democracy . . .’