Harbart had no idea what to say. Closing the door behind him, he grabbed Accounts of the Afterlife and, by the light streaming in through the window, frantically scrabbled through its pages. Hoping to patch something together from “Dead Sister Brought Back by Brother’s Devotion”: “It was in 1872. The chief employee of Jessore’s Chanchraraj Sarkar, the (now) late Nabinchandra Basu, was then in residence with his family at No. 3 Sookia Street … had she become a ghost then?” But no, there was nothing there. Nor in “Revenge of the Wasted Wife” nor in “Haunting the Husband’s Harlot.” “My Departed Daughter Jyotsna” provided the gem that the higher a soul ascended, the brighter it tended to glow. Yes, but so what? Harbart was growing more and more tense, more and more scared. About all of it. What the hell kind of case was this anyway?

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door.

With a quaking heart, Harbart opened it—but it was only Pachu, from the tea shop, come to collect the glasses. And he said no, there was no one waiting at the shop, no one waiting to come back here. Sliding his feet into his sandals, Harbart followed Pachu out, walked over to the cigarette shop, walked on to the bus stop, walked everywhere. Looked everywhere. That man was gone.

That man never came back.

The copy of Shanta’s letter stayed behind with Harbart, was left behind in his pile of papers, all with addresses scribbled on them.

But the things he could have told the man—those turned out to be useful. A young doctor, a child specialist, had brought to Harbart the beautiful Belgian actress Tina. It was Tina’s first visit to India. She was a TV and stage actress. A crowd had gathered outside Harbart’s door in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. The doctor was acting as interpreter, translating Harbart’s words into English for her. Tina’s mother had also been an actress. But a car accident had crippled her. Tina’s father married again. Tina’s mother was now dead. Tina was very sad. Harbart was only too familiar with the actions and accomplishments of dearly beloved motherly souls—Tina being a foreigner, he had also deployed, with flawless aim, some basic theory—the afterlife comprised six sorts of spirits—what each was like—who inhabited which plane—how a mother’s love acted like a shield around her children. Tina said she’d visited a Tibetan lama in London. He had also told her about the six-spirit system, but had not been able to tell her where her mother was nor how she was.

The memshaheb paid a hundred rupees to Harbart. Harbart’s reputation multiplied a thousandfold. The doctor made sure Harbart signed a receipt.

“You’re on a roll, boss! When’s the mem-femme coming again?”

“As soon as she needs to. I gave her quite a dose.”

“Boss, did you really close the door and show her a ghost in private?”

“You lot are so full of shit, I tell you. Know this, that Harbart doesn’t sniff at every hole for honey. Mem-femme! Hah, I’ve seen hundreds!”