On May 16, feeling much better, Harbart climbed up to his top-terrace but later when evening fell he was overcome with exhaustion and slid into a stupor. By then, Saptarshi the Great Bear, Mrigashira the Pole Star, quasars, pulsars, black holes, white dwarfs, red giants—each and every sodding one had gathered in the sky. When some sense returned, Harbart saw that he was kneeling before ten enormous toenails growing out of someone’s two enormous feet, someone’s legs as high as the third floor, someone’s colossal penis hanging higher, someone’s swaying testicles, someone’s jumbo curls of pubic hair—all so much higher in the sky that they were barely visible, hazy to the eye.

Then someone spoke to him, in a voice loud and deep enough to split the sky in two: “Ha, ha, Harbart! Fruit of Lalitkumar’s sperm and Shobharani’s womb, scoundrel, damned despicable sisterfucker Harbart, bow low, bow low.”

“Who are you?”

“Son of a bitch! Who am I? I am Dhui.”

“You are Dhui? You?”

“Quiet! One more word and I’ll kick your teeth in. Look, there’s my father Lambodar. That’s not a cloud, that’s my father. And there, see, Nishapati. And behind him, the one that’s yelling, that’s Sridhar.”

“Please—why is he yelling?”

“Karmic kickback has given him fistulas forever. Should he be singing instead? No matter. You’re doing well, you little shit, kicking goal after goal in their goolies. Bloody rascal!”

Dhui let out another roar. Harbart flung himself flat but saw, one after another, hitherto family-photos-only assuming all three dimensions and becoming people who then tossed him from hand to hand, as though playing ball. Heirless Keshab and Harinath, engrossed in an endless blood-barfing contest. “If this one wants one barrel of booze scented with jasmine juice,” grumbled Dhui, “then that one wants two barrels with a banana bouquet. Their booze used to come from Chandernagore. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!”

“Then?”

“Quiet! Once the booze competition starts, it never stops. Runs on and on till time runs out. Glug!”

“I beg you, please, please don’t go away at glug.”

“Want to know more, eh? Alright then—see that fellow over there, the one with the iron ring round his cock, jumping up and down? Do you know who he is?”

“Please, no, my lord.”

“Why would you? You only know that dirty debauched lady doctor. He is the great renunciate, Gopallal. Do you have any questions?”

“Why did he renounce?”

“Why? Why? You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Because the cook’s shelter-given daughter began a belly.”

A headless creature came wailing up to them and then proceeded to break wind and shit.

“Who’s that man?”

“Not man. Say, who’s that sisterfucker. That’s the adopted son, Jhulanlal. He’s the one whose throat was slashed by Biharilal to give birth to Peeyu Kahaan and your father. And there, in the distance, see that man playing ludo with Queen Victoria? Go, go touch your head to his toenails once. He is Banarasilal. Ran a roaring trade with the foreigners. Supplied native whores to horny Englishmen.”