Ratatatatat.

*

The wheel of time spun round and round. 1992 arrived—armed with a litany of shame and blame, calumny and corruption, thievery and treachery—but Harbart’s year began well enough. A Bengali newspaper or two published the odd article or two. Nothing much in January. Nothing much in February—no, there were a few cases, off and on. Then again nothing much in March. Harbart was happy enough with whatever money he was making. But not with the smoking-drinking expenditures which had risen dramatically. Harbart decided that since Dol was on March 18th, he’d carry on with his flamboyant spending until then. From the day after, he would let go of everything, lead a frugal life. Harbart was slowly running out of swagger too. The machine was giving trouble—sound, yes, but picture, no. Or sometimes picture, yes, but sound, no. Man was a TV, after all. For a few days now, different parts of Harbart’s body had been emitting different croaks and creaks.

“Tell me, dear,” Jyathaima said, “You seem to be making good enough money. Then why is that body of yours as thin as fish bone? Must be too much drink.”

“No, no, nonsense, Jyathaima. Actually, it’s hard work, very hard work. Bone-crushingly hard. That’s why all my marrow-fat’s drying up—it’s not getting a chance to stay in my bones.”

“Oh but that’s a sign of sainthood! What good will it do for my Haru to be like that? I’m going to find you a girl, get you married. Tie you down a little.”

“Who do you think will want to marry me?”

“Who won’t? And why won’t they? An earning boy. A god-looking boy. So many girls just waiting. You roll the beads. Then see how they come, chasing them home.”

The beads roll, roll away. No one chases after them, no one follows them home to Harbart. Not Buki. Not the lady doctor. And the fairy? No, Harbart simply cannot bring himself to imagine the fairy as his bride.

*

Dol was a riot of colors. Someone put something peculiar in Harbart’s hair—the more he washed it, the more it gave out color.

The day after Dol. Still hungover. When bang in the middle of the afternoon, the doors to Harbart’s room were flung open by that sisterfucker who’d come that one time wearing a raw-silk bush-shirt shirt the color of clotted cream and who’d left promising to turn up again and sweep his suspicions away. Harbart was dreaming then, that he was in a hospital hallway lined with big glass jars containing bits and pieces of the human body, aborted fetuses without eyes or mouths, that he was running through that hallway, that he was running and that a naked woman was running with him. But how will he get out with a woman who’s wearing no clothes? Wait, there’s a way—on the hospital grounds, in the shady-shadowy spots, some hookers hawked dead women’s things. Harbart bought a cheap nylon saree for the naked woman. She put it on, and then they came out from the hospital gates and found themselves in front of the tram depot. But instead of boarding a tram, they climbed into a rickshaw. The rickshaw lurched on its way. Suddenly, Harbart looked down and got the shock of his life—how had he not noticed that the woman had high heels on! And her armpit, there, just beside him. And just beyond that her nylon-saree-covered breasts …