IN THE MIDDLE OF SEPTEMBER, towards the end of the rains, Mr. Banerjee threw a couple of dinners in his flat. An unusual brightness emanated from that side of the mansion; parties were seldom thrown these days. Behind the white façade of the mansion, the lives of the occupants were in a sort of abeyance; none of the tenants paid rent to Mr. Banerjee—and Mr. Banerjee did not seem terribly concerned. Only against one tenant was a court case under way.

One morning, when Bishu was walking past the lawn towards the lane to buy a few things from the tea stall, the Hindustani watchman at the gate called out to him. “E Biswajeet!” They had never really liked each other, and the watchman always addressed him by his full, not his shortened, name. He was a bulky man in khaki, certainly larger than Bishu, who was only five feet four inches, and he had moustaches. “Have you heard?” “Heard what, darwan?” asked Bishu. “I haven’t heard anything.” “Arrey, everyone has heard and you haven’t heard,” said the watchman. “You’re a strange fellow! Your friend was taken away this morning by the police.” “My friend?” said Bishu—he felt suddenly ill; he could not hear the raucous cries of the crows overhead. “Which friend?” “Arrey—which friend—that friend of yours, Jagan, the one you brought to work,” said the watchman, leaning back on his stool. The watchman, his uniform, the lane, Southern Gardens, the sunlit lawn, all seemed to belong to a world of which Bishu was not really part. “Why?” he asked softly. “What does he do?” “The fellow is a thief, a known thief—he and his aunt’s son and some others were stealing bicycles and other things and selling them in these parts. They opened his trunk and found a gun in it—I saw it myself! Where did you bring him from, e Biswajeet?”

The first thing Bishu did was go back to Jagan’s room and open the door; the room was completely bare, except for sunlight and shadows coming through the window. Then he went upstairs, and Uma came out of the door and said, “Where were you? Mali was looking for you.” “Why he looking for me?” asked Bishu, stepping inside. Daal was boiling on the stove, and Priti was sitting on the floor and slapping it with her small hands. “How should I know? Is he an easy man to talk to? He just mumbled something and went off—I think dadababu wants to see you.”

Later, when Bishu met Mr. Banerjee in the sitting room inside his flat, he found the latter had already taken a decision.

“Bishu,” he said, “I asked you to bring me a good man. Did you know Jagan was stealing bicycles?”

Bishu wondered if he would lie, but he swallowed, and nothing would come out except what had really happened.