Oh, how soothing the scent of foreign eau de cologne.

The next day, they sent for Dr. Sudhir. When he came to the house, it was twenty rupees a visit. He spent a long time examining Harbart. Then: “Beastly form of dengue,” he announced, “the air’s full of it these days. Obscure viral origin. It’ll go, but it’ll take time. I’m giving him antibiotic capsules. Three times a day for at least ten days. And a vitamin. Otherwise he’ll grow more weak. Light food. Maximum rest.”

“When can he have rice again, Doctor-babu?” asked Dhanna.

“He can have it right now. Just make a paste and give it to him. And any light food … soup …”

It was another week before Harbart felt a little better. Still slept most of the day, his cheeks and chin dark with stubble. The medicines, the special fish, the citrus fruits—Jyathaima paid for it all. Harbart’s trunk hadn’t been touched.

One day, when Harbart was lying unconscious, Surapati Marik paid a visit. To let him know that he had made some progress. He talked to the boys and got all the details of Harbart’s illness. Expressed relief that a good doctor was in place. Told them: “Never mind. When he’s a bit better, tell him absolutely no need to worry. Everything is proceeding according to plan. There should be two English pieces on him out soon. I’m off to the South for a few days. In case they come out when I’m gone, tell him I’ll come back and visit him with the cuttings. You fellows have done a lot. It’s hard to see things like this, these days. This whole community thing is almost gone from the city. So nice to see that that’s not true. Don’t forget to tell him, please. Goodnight. Goodnight.”

He’d treated them all to Classic cigarettes. And his words had not been fake-faltu either. For the second-last Saturday of April and the Sunday the week after, two separate English newspapers published two separate articles indeed. “Dead Speak in the Divine Supermarket” and “Messages from the Other Side.”

The right people did not fail to notice the write-ups.

And the offices of both the newspapers were flooded with letters from the United States—from journals such as Fate and Zetetic Scholar—and from England—from Fortean Times and Unexplained—all making inquiries about Harbart.

Harbart spent all his days in sleep, undreaming, unbroken sleep. Should he wake up and feel like reading, the doctor had left for him a copy of Kanti P. Dutta’s Gopal Bhaar and the Spooks’ Soiree. But he would read only a few lines and fall asleep again. And wake up again and see the half-dead evening light smeared upon the windowpane. The darkening room grows darker still. From a house down the lane, a song from a radio wafts and wanes. The shalik birds return to their cornice nests. Someone comes and switches on the light. And he falls asleep again. And wakes up again, and sees three or four of the boys sitting silently by his side.