From where he is sitting, Alok can also see his father lying on a bed that seems to rest on stilts. Beneath him are mattresses, sheets and pillows of varying sizes. They are arranged neatly, horizontally, their disparate shapes coming together to form a solid whole, like something made out of Lego. Right on top, on a maroon bedspread, sits the old man smoking a cigarette and looking straight ahead. He is the captain of his ship, splayed out on the deck, a little frail but still sailing, his vessel propelled by the warm machinery of pillow and blanket. What keeps him going is Rekha’s darkened silhouette on the beach—the carrot dangling on the shore and, always, in the end, turning out to be a mirage.

Surabhi has finished her work in the kitchen and is sitting with Alok in the balcony. Atmaram has gone to get cigarettes from the shop at the corner. It’s the time just before dinner is taken, a short interval to enable the women to wash their faces and catch their breath. Umang and his mother have decided to sail with the captain for a while, albeit on a much smaller raft—a thin mattress spread on the TV room floor.

It’s a hot night, cooled a little by the breeze blowing in from the sea. Surabhi and Alok are exchanging notes about the week gone by. Alok tells her about the rare books he sold in the morning to a rich lawyer. He complains that his wife taunts him all the time—he should earn more, drink less, his children hate him. Alok begins to cry quietly. Surabhi cannot see him in the dark but she can make out that he is crying from his quivering voice and the slurping noises he makes: the sound of air neither inhaled nor exhaled but trapped in the nostrils, being pushed around in circles.

Atmaram has returned with a pack of cigarettes. Alok lights one; the tobacco calms his nerves. Surabhi is excited about her little magazine—a Gujarati journal containing poems, stories and essays by women. She has enough sponsorship, she says, and the second issue should be out in a month’s time.

‘You should get a proper job,’ says Alok, ‘what’s the point of all this? You do all this once you have a steady income. For how long will I go on sending monthly cheques? My son’s growing up . . .’