Anima sits absolutely still. She sees Krishna before her, now all alone. His death has been foretold. Only the prediction remains to be fulfilled. It is a moment of waiting. What goes on in his mind in that brief time between life and death? Turmoil? Regret? Grief? Fulfilment? What is he just then? Man or God? The great poet Vyas is silent on this. But it is this moment, empty but potentially packed with drama, that invites the artist to fill it in with his imagination.

Feroze says without opening his eyes, ‘Yes, this is beautiful. The silence after the massacre. In time there will be colour again and the world will fill with the strange and terrible sounds of a new beginning.’

Feroze opens his eyes. ‘You remember Macbeth, Anima? Before Macbeth commits his ungodly deed, an eagle, soaring high in the sky, is swallowed up by an owl. The king's horses break their tethers and run amok. That's it. No more signs of what is to come. Perhaps two ill omens suffice in that cold and grey land. But look what we have here. A bounty of inauspicious signs. I want to make it all happen on my canvas. If I can. I am so grateful to you, dear heart, for bringing the whole thing alive.’

Feroze says nothing for a long time, his gaze far away.

‘Shall I leave?’ Anima asks softly.

‘What? Leave? No. Wait a bit.’

Something stirs in the dark at the back of the room. Jijabhau turns on the lights.

Anima is startled. ‘Were you here all this time?’

He nods. ‘I have never heard this story of Krishna. We always hear about Radha and the milkmaids.’

Anima notices that Feroze's eyes have become unfocused. He will not speak now. He will continue looking at her without seeing her. He will continue to smile this smile. He will shift an object from here to there without intention, and then from there to here. But he will not bring himself to say he wants to be alone.

Anima picks up her handbag. ‘Shall I tell you how I feel?’

‘How?’ Feroze pretends interest.

‘Like a man must feel once the seed is sown. The woman's body will now go to work on it, exiling him from the magic of creation. I’ll be off.’

Feroze protests, but weakly. He gets up from his chair to see her out.

Sanjay is waiting outside. She signals him to drive down to the gate.

Feroze's gardener has just watered the plants. She fills her lungs with the fragrance of warm, wet earth as she walks slowly to the gate, the pebbles under her feet crunching with every step. She leaves behind her the unnatural happenings of the Book of Pestles. Out here, at least for the present, the gulmohr bears gulmohr flowers and the mango tree, mangoes.

17