Ashesh puts the last mark on the fourth painting in his Artists series. All four are the same size, rectangles of one and a half by two feet. Each carries a hint of a lively new colour amidst the browns, dirty greens and blue-blacks of his regular palette. There's golden yellow, kumkum red and turquoise—the favourite colours of the old miniature painters, made from leaves, flowers, fruits and stones.

The series had come to him as a seed idea a year ago. His old school friend, Vasant Gupte, had gone away to America after college to study business management and never returned. He had found a job there, married, had children, got promotions, become vice president of a multinational corporation and been recently appointed head of the South Asia region, which involved making frequent visits to Mumbai. It was on one of these visits, when he had stopped over for just one day on his way to Colombo, that he had called. ‘Come to the office. We’ll have lunch together.’

Ashesh had put away all work and headed for Churchgate. Vasant was still in a pre-lunch meeting when he arrived. He had waited in the anteroom to his cabin, happy to let his thoughts wander. Vasant's secretary cast a sideways glance at him. Ashesh was not occupying himself with anything. He hadn’t picked up a magazine from the stack on the side table. He wasn’t speaking on his cell phone. He was just sitting there, urgently in need of entertainment. Vasant's secretary was glad of the opportunity to provide it.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘He's such a fine man—Gupte sir. Brilliant.’ Ashesh started and stared. ‘He should have been made president of the company long ago. But of course he's an Indian. Americans are pukka racists. Actually, our people are cleverer than any of them. I’ve heard they can’t even spell simple words. And they count on their fingers, it seems.’

Ashesh bore a fixed smile on his face. The secretary changed gears. ‘Mumbai's weather has gone to the dogs. Bound to, with slums multiplying.’ Once he had shredded slums to his satisfaction, he lowered his voice confidentially and came to the point. ‘Sir, I am also an artist, you know. I compose ghazals.’ As he let this purring kitten out of his bag, Ashesh had noticed his hand sliding towards the second drawer of his desk. It was a clear sign that Ashesh was going to be subjected to pain-filled love songs. But just then, Vasant had walked out of his cabin. The secretary's hand had dropped to his side as he stood up to attention. Vasant's eyebrows had come together over his nose.

‘Sonpatki, how often must I tell you that I’m not the national flag?’

Sonpatki had buried his head in his shoulder bone and giggled. ‘Can’t help it, sir. It is how we are brought up in Bharat.’