“But isn’t Harbart urban too?”

They have no answer. They say nothing. Pranab Ghosh says nothing too. Then: “Sometimes I wonder why people do these things. You will be mistaken if you think that, like Casanova, all of these men have a carefully laid-out plan.”

Mickey was surprised. “Which Casanova, Pranab-da?”

“The Casanova you know, the great lady killer. He was clever indeed. Passed himself off as an occultist in order to impress the girls. But what about Cagliostro—what was his motive? Rasputin, on the other hand, is easy to explain. He’d managed to impress even Goethe. Great rascal. There’s also the Count of St. Germain. Fascinating. In comparison, what can we call the fellow we’ve seen? Gopal Fool.”

The one who’d written the letter, and the photographer and the reporter, and the college boys and girls—after they had all gone—Koton, Borka, Koka, Gyanobaan, Buddhimaan, Somnath, Abhay, Khororobi’s brother Jhaapi, Gobindo, all the boys, rushed into the room and saw Harbert shivering. Gasping, clasping-unclasping, sweating. His shirt he’d thrown off. The table fan swung from side to side, and with it swung Harbart, trying to catch the breeze. They stopped it swinging, made him sit on his bed, made him drink a glass of water. Sent for tea, special tea until slowly, Harbart began to calm down. But the fear wouldn’t leave his eyes. He kept saying, “It’s all become a googly, all a googly! Oof, thumping inside, thump-thumping inside … My god, what plan is this?”

Nine

Impenetrable, impassable void, unseeing eyes

Such flames! Such fumes! Beyond—what lies?

—Akshay Kumar Boral

Nine a.m. Nine-thirty. Ten. The signboard-stripped door refused to open, so they began to knock and bang. Koka, Borka, Somnath came running, their eyes still heavy with sleep, their mouths still stinking of the night before.

“Harbart-da! Harbart-da!”

The knocking and the shouting was loud enough to be heard on the second floor. Dhanna told Phuchka, “Go and see, no.’

Phuchka went, one cheek still covered with shaving cream. He was a businessman, a practical man. He quickly figured that something was wrong. He was the one who told them to break down the door. The door was broken in—and the smell of death that had festered all night burst out into the open with a whoosh. Phuchka ran back upstairs. Told Dhanna. Dhanna, dazed and disoriented, began to scream: “Killed himself! My brother’s killed himself!”

Dhanna-boudi and Nirmala rushed downstairs. Then, crying, slowly climbed back up. Jyathaima had not understood, at first. Then she’d fainted in shock. It is impossible to tell which happy memory had flashed across Girishkumar’s mind when he spotted the crowds outside the house. But a “Peeyu kahaan! Peeyu kahaan!” reminded everyone of his presence.

Gobi, Hartal, etc.—Dhanna’s friends arrived.

“Hey, don’t touch the body. Don’t touch nothing in the room.”

“Open the window, Hartal-da?”

“Didn’t I tell you to touch nothing? Suicide case. Anyone touches anything and the cops’ll tie his testicles in a knot.”

Dhanna came down again, crying. A band of boys and bicycles sped off to the police station. The officer heard them out. Then, “Bloody bastard!” he said: “Ruined my day.”