“That’s why his father named him Gyanobaan, fucking know-it-all.”

“Don’t dare bring my father into this, Koka. I’ll pin you I swear!”

They talk.

Outside, the blaze of the sun is slowly enveloped by tendrils of early-evening light. A weak, golden glow. Suddenly they see Harbart, beautiful Harbart, standing there, the light like a halo round his head. His head is wet, his body, the hair on his chest. The hair on his head, plastered against his skull. His underwear, soaking. The water running off him in big fat drops, and Harbart laughing. Twirling into the room like a ballerina, he pulled his towel off the line and then, drying himself, said, “Saw the tank overflowing with water. Thought I’d take a bath.”

“How you feeling now, boss?”

“Full of good feeling. Why don’t we go out?”

“You won’t drink tonight, boss?”

“Not drink tonight? Tonight’s the grand celebration! Tonight the booze will be extraordinary! Tonight we’ll fly sky-high.”

“Great! So you’re back in the mood, then!”

Harbart selects a fresh dhuti. Talks as he ties it around him. Talks as he combs his hair. Then puts on a hand-washed full shirt. Then opens the trunk. Then counts some money. Counts a lot of money. Counts so much he has to use finger-spit.

“Like we need to worry about moods. Know this: khanki-kin don’t fuck about with all this mood crap. All we know is fun. How can I tell you what a time they’re having, the katla fish on the babla tree. The bells are tinkling, the lights are flashing, flashing blue, flashing red, like a dance party. On the branches the gleam and the glitter of the big ones, the rui and the mirgel. And on the leaves, the little mourola, shining. Silver-sparkle. Sparkle-silver. No one can stop the bedlam, I tell you! The shahebs beat us black and blue, day and night. Could they stop it? The shahebs got tired, then this lot arrived. If English-spurting was all it needed to stop the bedlam, then …”

He tied a rubber band around the bundle of notes. Threw it across to Gobindo.

“There’s three thousand. Enough for a portable TV.”

“For the club, boss?”

“And what else? Since everyone’s rushing about yelling fraudery and fakery, I’m not bloody hanging on to any of that money. Oh, and Koka, here’s another four hundred. For booze.”

“Four hundred will get us twenty bottles, boss!”

“Twenty bottles! Fuck off! I’m not talking Bangla. I’m talking English, English—Foreign Liquor Shop.”

“What should I get, Harbart-da? Tonight seems to be a lion-league night!”

“One whisky, large. One rum, large. Ice, three kilos, from New Market. For those who don’t drink, get chops, chilli-hot chana, prawn cutlets, the ones with the sticking-out tails. Then salted peanuts, cigarettes—oof, I can’t think of everything. You lot can’t even learn how to spend the damn stuff! Tonight we’re going to be mem-merry, femme-frothy.”

Harbart told them to come around eight-thirty. Then he fell sleep. Woke up at seven. Carried a chair to stand on and took down the sign from above his door, the one that read “Conversations with the Dead. Prop: Harbart Sarkar.” Placed it in a corner, its face turned to the wall. There’d been a new razor blade under the two books on the wall shelf. He checked to see it was still there. Then, pulling shut the door to his room, he went up to the second floor to meet his Jyathaima, she who’d married his father’s older brother.