There were a few times when Harbart indeed displayed the signs of being a trance medium. Although he never showed any signs of prophecy or clairvoyance. Nor could he have ever become a healing medium. He did not possess the power to mesmerize. And the power to give form to the soul, to cause a materialization—that was beyond him entirely.

Richet, Crookes, Conan Doyle, Meyers—there should be no attempt to connect Harbart to this glorious tradition. He had no relation either with those in Calcutta who devoted themselves to the study of souls and free spirits, among whose number could be counted a living legend of the cultural world. Harbart was a freak.

And, of course, once his business began to thrive, his good sense entirely left him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for money. Sometimes, holding an object that belonged to the dead, or gazing at a scrap of their handwriting, he would pretend to analyze it through psychometry. And besides, it is practically common knowledge that true spiritualists do not approve of establishing contact with the hereafter in the middle of the afternoon, or in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter or at the height of summer, in rain or storm or thundershower, for at those times they are most likely to come across ghosts and ghouls: in such conditions, free spirits are almost entirely absent. But Harbart had no right-time/wrong-time. Harbart had no time—not even time to stop.

One of his first clients was Binayendra Chowdhury and his wife Atashi. Binayendra’s only son had been a pilot. Who’d died in an Airbus accident in Hyderabad. About a year ago. They had been thinking of getting him married, Rahul, their son …

Since his death, Atashi had all but lost her mind …

Binayendra-babu smoked one cigarette after another. Atashi stared unblinkingly at Harbart. And Harbart, Harbart sat ramrod straight, staring unblinkingly at Rahul’s photograph.

Then, after some time, he closed his eyes.

(Koton and the other boys had been sent outside.)

Then, after some more time, he opened his eyes, picked up a dot pen and scrawled M–4 on a sheet of paper. Then, with a gentle smile, he pushed the photograph back toward Binayendra-babu.

Then he began to speak:

“Untimely death. Meant to live long, work hard—but who knows why and how, the thread snapped. Grief! Sorrow! Despair! And that’s not all. Your deaths too! Oh, I don’t know where you found such fortitude. I bow before you, I bow before such strength.”

Atashi burst out crying. Harbart stopped for a moment to wipe his own tears. Then smiled gently again.

“But there is no more need for sorrow. None at all. Time, death—these are part of life. I see the boy’s mind was full of god.”

“Peeyu kahaan!” came a roar from the first floor, terrifying Binayendra and Atashi. “Peeyu kahaan!”

“As far as I knew,” Binayendra said a moment later, “Khoka had no time for religion.”

“None at all?”