A few days later, Dhanna-dada unlocked the room and sold all the books, the pages of the books, the notebook, the signboard made of tin—sold them all to a scrap merchant. Sent the table fan and trunk and chair up to the second floor. The trunk contained a broken dot-pen and a few coins. Harbart’s umbrella and Ulster were given away to the sweeper and a beggar, respectively. In the heat of a summer afternoon, the beggar had been reluctant to accept that blanket-like cloak-like object but then, thinking of the future, he finally relented. That same beggar was also gifted Harbart’s shirt and dhuti and towel. The scrap merchant who’d bought the signboard had at first found himself in a bit of a fix. But then, by the grace of good fortune, it was in turn bought by a pop-gun-and-balloon man in New Market who devised a scheme—an elaborate hammering of nails all over it to which he then tied many multicolored balloons. Thus Harbart’s signboard became a target for popgun pellets.

Once all the balloons had burst, then through the jungle of nails, perhaps the eye could see the upside-down letters: Conversations with the Dead. Prop: Harbart Sarkar.

Perhaps many days later, perhaps many, many years later, some little boy, letting go of his mother’s hand, his father’s hand, will run and run and then stand still before the dusty glass window of some antique shop and stare and stare, entranced, at the light-holding fairy still hovering on the other side. And when his mother, his father, when they drag him away, perhaps his lower lip will tremble a little with hurt.

None of this, of course, may ever happen.

But if it does, then later, even later, when the boy begins to shiver in his sleep, even then no one will notice. That sort of thing happens all the time.

Even, even later, perhaps a cut-loose kite will flit and float across this sky and that, and then drift down to rest on Harbart’s top-terrace. No one will ever know how the morning mist makes the top-terrace seem so very unclear, so very unreasonable.

Or, if that little boy ever runs a fever, and if that fever makes him delirious, as fevers are wont to do, then if anyone listens to his words, perhaps they may come to hear of a certain fairy.

It is also possible that they may not.

The windows are closed again in Harbart’s empty room. If the wild wind comes, there is nothing left for it to toss and tumble. Such is life.

Red balloons, blue balloons—they all pop. New balloons are blown up and tied with string. They all pop again. Such is life.

Perhaps the little boy will whimper and weep as he sleeps. Then giggle and laugh. When children do this, the grown-ups say they are dream-delighting with the gods.

He talks in his sleep every night. Perhaps the doctor will prescribe some pills. Perhaps the doctor will reassure the parents, “Let him sleep. He’ll be alright if he sleeps.”