I heard the sanyasi ask her, ‘What have you done for your nation?’

The woman said, ‘Have I given anything without seeking a price for it?’

The sanyasi said, ‘There’s still time. Your nation lies here on this side of the river. Beyond, there is only the river, flowing – without past, present or future, without demands. You have to choose one of the two …’

‘I’ll go to the other side,’ said the woman.

‘Then let me take you across,’ said the sanyasi, escorting her down the steps. Overcoming my bewilderment, I followed them. They got into a boat. But before I could take another step, I heard someone calling me. The voice was strange, but I felt sure that it was me they were calling. The voice floated up, pulsating with feeling – ‘O Baula, Baula, Baula re … e … e … e, e Baula, Baula, Baula re … e … e … e …’ – the call seemed intended to flip my perspective, changing my view of my life. Within it, a thousand intoxicating fruits burst at every moment, wrapping themselves around my existence. In it, I discovered an irresistible call to return – compressed layers of sound seemed to travel from the back of my head to the tips of my hair, penetrating my consciousness.

I left the dark ghat and climbed back to the road, seeking the source of this sound. As I walked, again came that cry I could get drunk on, ‘Baula, Baula, Baula re … e … e … e!’

Eventually I had to stop, for my feet were entan­gled in weeds and vines. In front of me I saw a truck.

The truck had stood beneath the abandoned bridge for countless years – waiting to carry my corpse away, Baula. Soft tendrils wound around its tyres and up the wooden railings at the back, climbing all the way to the roof before descending to the headlights, its eyes. It had waited there for years, waiting for me to find it. It wanted me to remove the tendrils and kiss it, to start the engine and restore it to motion – but you’ve written such a song, Baula, that my death wish won’t go away. It makes me want to turn into a vine and coil around this nation, this land, this river, this light and shade – to kneel in front of the sanyasi and admit that this nation has given me a great deal indeed.

This is the sanyasi who has no longer renounced everything. Now, he wishes for something of his own – after all this time, I have finally learned to identify him as my nation.

16

Earlier, not long after darkness had fallen, we sat on the long veranda outside the club. The large crystal lampshades shed a strange golden glow. I looked up, and my gaze settled on the blank white hoarding on a tall building in Chowringhee. A black bird flew in front of the white hoarding, and I gaped in astonish­ment. I tugged at your arm with such force that you spilled vodka onto your trousers. ‘What’s the matter?’ you said. Excited, I said, ‘Look, look at the bird flying away from the hoarding. I thought for a moment that it was part of an advertisement, and had come alive.’