The next morning the sun was out, but there were puddles of water on parts of the lawn. The sour-faced old mali, in a dhoti and a shirt, was bent over the plants and muttering something. Leaves and branches had fallen on the side of the driveway and had to be thrown away; the birds in the trees had returned to their normal life and business and could be heard all day. But, once more, that night it rained, and it continued to rain, on and off, for the next ten days. It brought chaos to the lane, Southern Gardens, and morning would begin with drivers shouting at each other and car horns being blown because water had collected at the entrance to the lane and made getting out difficult. “Now it’s really begun,” thought Bishu. The days were monochromatic and dull, with light like a suggestion. Then, on the tenth day, when the rain had reduced to a drizzle and there was sun and rain at the same time, the mali shouted to Bishu as he was passing by the lawn, “Ei Bishu, where’s that man of yours?” Bishu stopped. “Which man, dadu?” he asked. “‘Which man, dadu?’—why, that Oriya you brought here—I haven’t seen him for the last three days! Has he come here to work or sleep?” “I’ll see, dadu,” mumbled Bishu, and went off quickly, ashamed. After all, he was a man from his district; but, come to think of it, Bishu hadn’t seen much of Jagan during the last seven days, either, though that could be because he had been busy with other things during the rains; anyway, he worked inside the house and returned to his room only in the evening. But he decided he would look into Jagan’s room later.