Afterwards, full, and with beedis in their hands, they reemerged from Dacre’s Lane and walked towards Red Road. They sat down beneath the statue of the Unknown Soldier, a British Tommy. People passed by, families, children making strange noises that now denoted pleasure, now curiosity, now anger. At one point, Bishu said: “Mejda—babu was saying, Is there a man to do some work in the garden and help the mali and, you know, do odd jobs?” Mejda looked thoughtful and then said: “I’ll see, Bishu. There is a man from our district, Jagan, he seems trustworthy. I used to know him in the village, and he’s related to my wife’s maternal uncle. I know he’s here in Calcutta and out of a job. I’ll see if I can send him to you.” A balloon seller went past, and Bishu called out “Ei” to him, and the balloon seller came back to him rubbing a balloon, and said, “Yes, dada?” “I’ll buy one for Priti,” said Bishu to Mejda, a little ashamed. “Priti—my little Priti?” Mejda sounded offended. “I will buy it,” he said. He chose one that was a composite of two balloons, shaped like a bird, with a beak and paper eyes stuck to its head. “Yes—how much is this?” he asked. The balloon seller rubbed the bird and said, “Eight annas.” “Eight annas—son of a bitch—for that thing?” said Mejda, taking out a coin from his pocket. He spat on the ground. The balloon seller smiled with betel-stained teeth as he untied the balloon. Bishu took it home.

*   *   *

“DADABABU,” whispered Bishu.

Mr. Banerjee was sitting on a sofa with a magazine in his hand. He was smoking a pipe. When Bishu repeated the call, he looked up.

“Dadababu,” said Bishu, and grinned shyly, as if he had won a prize, “I brings a man—you tells me—to help mali.”

Mr. Banerjee looked absently at him for a few seconds. He had been reading of a takeover bid in Bombay and of obstruction to future investment in Calcutta. His father had been a well-known businessman in the days of successful Bengali business, but he himself had done a modest though not unimportant job in a company.

“Oh, you’ve brought a man,” he said at last.

“Yes, dadababu,” said Bishu, happy that Mr. Banerjee’s attention had focused upon him. He glanced behind him.

A man who had so far been in the background stepped forward—a thin man with a lined face, his hair combed backward; he was not more than forty years old. He bowed briefly to Mr. Banerjee. “Namashkar, shaheb,” he said. Mr. Banerjee, pipe in one hand, said to Bishu:

“You know this man?”

“Oh yes!” said Bishu, smiling broadly again. “He is from Khurda district—our district, dadababu!”

“What is your name?” asked Mr. Banerjee.

“Jagan, dadababu,” said the man, bending a little.