I feel my thoughts and senses go astray

The water pot gapes with barren brim

As I gaze and gaze and gaze at him

Tell me, sister, can I go on this way?

When I hear him play the flute

I rush from my room down the river route

Oh but of a calamity I should beware.

My husband’s mother, his sisters dear

will shame and scold me I do fear

How to the Yamuna do I dare?

The song trails off … and Jyathaima heaves and heaves with sobs. A sliver of moonlight falls upon a cupboard door and spatters everything with silver. Mingled with the light from Dhanna’s television, it paints the verandah with a blazing blue glow. As he walks away, Harbart sees his uncle leaning against the wall and staring with deep tenderness at his wife.

Harbart cried all the way back to his room.

Back in his room, Harbart’s heart ached. The top-terrace, the shadows, the night, the morning, the crow’s call—his heart ached for them all. His heart ached for his father. His heart ached for his mother. His heart ached for his uncle. His heart ached for his aunt. Everything and everywhere, a tie that bound, a string that pulled. His heart ached for every one.

Back in his room, Harbart how-howled into his pillow. Cried for Binu. Cried for himself. Cried for Buki. Cried for all the lies he’d told. Cried and cried until he fell asleep. Then cried in his sleep. Then turned over in his sleep. Then laughed in his sleep. Then cried. Then laughed.

Father Lalitkumar and mother Shobharani had been observing their child and his rather extraordinary exertions. An astonished Lalitkumar looked enquiringly at his wife, who said, with an enigmatic smile, “Just dream-delighting with the gods.”

*

Harbart’s business began to thrive. A doctor came, with his brother’s wife. The brother had died in America, died of cancer. A stewardess came. She wanted to speak to her father. A medium-built boy came one day. For his mother. Couldn’t have been older than the first year at college. But he was not impressed: “Whatever you’ve told me, it’s all vague. Not one concrete word. My mistake—I shouldn’t have come.”

After he’d left, Harbart sat in silence for a few long minutes.

Then, “Shouldn’t have come!” he spat. “Father’s sister-fucking son! Did I tell you to come?”

Six

I’m lost without a trace, oh won’t you lift your face

That I may kiss you once, and once again

—Swarajkumari Devi

One evening in the winter of 1991, just like the evenings of three or four winters past. Harbart put on his Ulster overcoat and the pants from Binu—dead twenty years now—looked at himself in the mirror, and was at once utterly charmed by his own reflection.

“Cat, bat, water, dog, fish!” he whispered.

What will Harbart do now? Of the adventure he was about to embark upon, he had only a vague idea. A twenty-minute walk would take him to the shaheb neighborhood—just the sound of the street names gave him such a thrill—Loudon, Rawdon, Robinson, Short, Outram, Wood, Park …