Later, the Haldars built a fourth floor and Buki’s terrace was lost.

On one of the walls of his own top-terrace, Harbart had scratched a B with a bit of brick. Scratched it deep. And even when it was grown over with moss, he could tell that beneath it the B was looking at him, that it was nodding, yes.

*

His little top-terrace had never betrayed Harbart. Although two things had happened that could have proved dangerous. One evening, it was pouring rain, pouring down, and Harbart was stuck up there. So heavy and strong the rain. And so loud the sound of the hailstones hitting the tank. Harbart dived under it for shelter. A few hailstones, bouncing off the ground, landed near him. Flashes of lightning. Crashes of thunder. A few bolts landing with a sky-splitting crack. Harbart was frightened he’d never get down. Couldn’t get down, it was raining that hard. What if he lost his bearings? What if he stepped off in midair above the street or the lane below?

The other time, it had been the morning of Kali Puja. Someone had been testing the flying firecrackers. One of those red-hot clay encasings flew onto the top-terrace—and exploded.

On Harbart’s neck, right below his chin, right on his throat, until the end, there was a little white scar.

*

Dhanna-dada, Dhanna-boudi, their three growing sons—Harbart drifted further and farther away from them.

The deeply thoughtful walk in half-an-hour-away shahebi Victoria Square and all the attendant shahebi affectations—all that had come later—but the start of those thinking expeditions was born on a winter morning of the mid-1980s, when Jyathaima gave Harbart his Jyathamoshai’s Ulster overcoat. Even though it was moth-eaten in places, even though its nap had rubbed off in spots, even though its belt was lost—even then, Dhanna-dada complained within earshot of his mother: “All the old-is-gold things in the house, all the best-most things in the house, all that she shoves into the belly of that squat-and-eat-for-nothing. A father’s prized possession! And she never thought once to ask the eldest son!”

“Dhanna, half-old man you’ve become, still as greedy as a goat. So keen about your share, a son’s share, eh? So what do you care if I give him that coat? Would you ever wear it?”

“Look, Ma, don’t would-you-how-could-you about things you don’t understand. Do you think I’m being selfish about that coat? No, I’m bothered about habits! He gets food, he gets clothes. He gets this and that. On top of all that if today you get him a parrot, and tomorrow a cockatoo—where’s it all going to end, eh? Then he’ll want his share of the house, want a house and homefront of his own. Then?”

“He never asks for that because he’s such a good boy. But why shouldn’t he? His father left him a share, after all!”

“There, see—now, see—you’re making me lose my temper, see? Bugger his father’s share. Do you think there’s brains enough in that skull to even calculate a share? There’s balls enough in that body? Ask for his share! He’s certainly asking for his share!”