“Many people say that, in Tarapith, there’s a holy man’s grave. If you pour a whole bottle of booze on it, you get visions of the future, see things.”

“No need to go so far. Go, just go to Ghutiari Sharif. See what goes on there.”

“Must go see Harbart at once,” Barilal said, “I’d like to hear it all for myself.”

Barilal’s real reason for wanting to visit Harbart was different. His brother Gama had died last year, died of liver-rot caused by too much drinking. Died, dead, alright, but ever since then, today this one had fever, tomorrow that one had diarrhea, day-after some other one failed an exam … Perhaps Harbart could offer a clue?

A few of the neighborhood boys had been in Harbart’s room, then.

By then, the steel of Harbart’s resolve had acquired its new edge.

He stared, unblinking, at Barilal for a few moments. Then said: “A year ago, no?”

“Yes, yes, eleven months. We did all the prayers and rest-in-peace rites, then. And soon, when it’s a full year, we’ll do them again.”

“All that’s well and good, but the poor thing’s dying without water.”

“Who?”

“Who else? The champa tree, my dear, the champa tree.”

The words struck a chill in Barilal’s heart. The terrace garden had been Gama’s only passion—and there, in a wooden box, he had indeed planted a champa tree. That was true.

And from his top-terrace, Harbart had seen Gama tending the potted plants all evening, puttering with their soil, watering them.

He had also seen, more recently, that champa tree drying to its death.

Wanting to rush back home, Barilal stood up. And Harbart dealt his masterstroke.

“If you see it’s dead, throw it away and plant a new one in the rains. If it lives, then no more to be said. Just a few days of watering, and you’ll know one way or the other.”

Barila’s legs threatened to give way. But Harbart didn’t stop, stopping was no longer an option, stopping was impossible: “They don’t go away, you know. The ties that bind. I’ll die. I’ll burn. But wherever the ties remain, therever I’ll return. Wherelse can I go? Such are the Invisible games, the Indiscernible diversions. Such an abundance of arrangements. But—all that some other day. Now go home, Bari-da, and do as I told you.”

Barilal’s tender mercies ensured that the champa tree revived, sprouted new leaves. Burst out in a babble of new branches.

Dhanna had shared the dream story with a handful of his friends, but Barilal tirelessly shared the plant story with as many people as he could—news of it traveled far and wide.

News of it even reached the Chief Inspector who couldn’t believe his ears: “Really? Just like Nostradamus! I should go see him for myself.”

Then one morning, perched on a rickshaw, Koton and Somnath brought back a sheet of wood-framed tin—red letters painted on a yellow background—a shiny new signboard: “Conversations with the Dead. Prop: Harbart Sarkar.”