In spite of the floodlights, the Indians in the stadium could see only darkness about them. It was left to Ganguly and Jadeja, throwing huge and fluent shadows, to build up a partnership of two hundred runs and steer the side to an unlikely victory. Anju Mahindra, who half an hour ago had been exhausted, now looked rejuvenated and fifteen years younger, and waved at someone who was presumably still awake in Bombay. Jadeja leaned forward and hit the winning four; on another channel Urmila Deshpande, her hair long and with no curls in it, sang sweet, tuneless words to Salmaan Khan upon a beach.

At one o’clock in the morning, a loud celebratory firecracker went off in Bandra. Khatau shuddered at the noise of the explosion, and thought of Ummar Aziz, small, nondescript, scratching his cheek thoughtfully.

Real Time

Real Time

ON THEIR WAY to the house, Mr. Mitra said he didn’t know if they should buy flowers. They were very near Jogu Bazaar; and Mr. Mitra suddenly raised one hand and said:

“Abdul, slowly!”

The driver eased the pressure on the accelerator and brought the Ambassador almost to a standstill. Not looking into the rearview mirror, he studied two boys with baskets playing on the pavement on his left.

“Well, what should we do?” Mr. Mitra’s face, as he turned to look at his wife, was pained, as if he was annoyed she hadn’t immediately come up with the answer.

“Do what you want to do quickly,” she said, dabbing her cheek with her sari. “We’re already late.” She looked at the small dial of her watch. He sighed; his wife never satisfied him when he needed her most; and quite probably it was the same story the other way round. Abdul, who, by sitting on the front seat, claimed to be removed to a sphere too distant for the words at the back to be audible, continued to stare at the children while keeping the engine running.

“But I’m not sure,” said the husband, like a distraught child, “given the circumstances.”

She spoke then in a voice of sanity she chose to speak in only occasionally.

“Do what you’d do in a normal case of bereavement,” she said. “This is no different.”

He was relieved at her answer, but regretted that he had to go out of the car into the market. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and terycotton trousers because of the heat, and shoes; he now regretted the shoes. He remembered he hadn’t been able to find his sandals in the cupboard. His feet, swathed in socks, were perspiring.