He felt bored; and he noticed a few others, too, some of whom he knew, looking out of place. Shraddh ceremonies weren’t right without their mixture of convivial pleasure and grief; and he couldn’t feel anything as complete as grief. He’d known Anjali slightly; how well do you know your wife’s distant relations, after all? He’d known more about her academic record, one or two charming anecdotes to do with her success at school, her decent first-class degree, and about her husband, Gautam Poddar, diversifying into new areas of business, than about her.

“Saab?”

Thank God! A man was standing before him with a platter of sandesh—he picked up one; it was small and soft; he took a tiny bite. It must be from Banchharam or Nepal Sweets; it had that texture. There was another man a little farther away, with a tray of Fanta and Coca-Cola. Mr. Mitra hesitated for a second and then walked towards the man. He groped for a bottle that was less cold than the others; he had a sore throat developing.

“Mr. Mitra!”

There was a man smiling widely at him, a half-empty Coke bottle with a straw in one hand.

“I hope you remember me; or do I need to introduce myself?”

“No, I don’t remember you; but I spoke to someone at the club just the other day who looks very like you, a Mr. Amiya Sarbadhikari,” said Mr. Mitra jovially, taking a sip of faintly chilled Fanta. A large painting of a middle-aged woman holding flowers faced them.

They talked equably of recent changes in their companies, catching up from where they’d left it in their last exchange; then to their children, and a brief disagreement about whether civil engineering had a future as a career today.

“Oh, I think so,” said Mr. Sarbadhikari, “certainly in the developing world, in the Middle East, if not in the West.” His Coke bottle was now almost empty; he held it symbolically, putting off finishing the dregs to a moment later. There was an uneasiness in their conversation, though, as if they were avoiding something; it was their being here they were avoiding. Of course, people never remembered the dead at shraddh ceremonies; they talked about other things; but that forgetfulness occurred effortlessly. In this case, the avoidance was strategic and self-conscious; the conversation tripped from subject to subject.

“Mr. Mitra, all this Coke has swollen my bladder,” said Sarbadhikari suddenly, “and, actually, from the moment I stepped in…”

From his manner it looked like he was familiar with Talukdar’s flat. Gathering the folds of his dhuti in one hand, he turned histrionically and padded off in the direction of a bathroom door. A child, the only one among the people who’d come, ran from one end of the hall to the other. There were a few people on the balcony; Mr. Mitra decided to join them.