Today’s mission was the outcome of a chance remark made day before yesterday. He’d been sitting at Ranjit’s place after dinner, contemplating returning to the guest house; he said, stretching his arms, “Well, I’m returning to Delhi next week. Have to get down to some shopping.” “Like what, Pramathesh da?” asked Ranjit’s wife, Malini, as she was putting away the dishes. “The usual things, I suppose,” said Pramathesh, who looked younger than his thirty-nine years. “Go to Gariahat, buy a few saris; decorations; take some gandharaj lime—my son loves those…” In his heart of hearts, he missed Calcutta; Delhi seemed small and transitory and provincial in comparison. “How did the project with the boss go this time?” asked Ranjit, lighting a cigarette (his wife called him a “chain-smoker”) and leaning against the wicker chair in the verandah. There was curiosity in his voice, and a hint of competitiveness. “Oh, all right,” said Pramathesh, sounding noncommittal, but actually engrossed in the mental picture of Lahiri as it hovered before him, a quiet, balding man with fair, tissue-paper-like skin who wore glasses with thick lenses and looked as if nothing had changed noticeably since the years before Independence. He could hear his voice and his cough. “You know, generous and friendly when he’s in a good mood, and slightly unfathomable when he’s not.” Ranjit nodded and took a fresh puff on his cigarette. “Are you thinking of taking back a two-kilogram rui from the fish market?” said Malini from the semi-lit dining room, her voice holding back laughter. “I saw you eating today and thought, ‘He doesn’t get fish there.’” “Yes, that’s right,” said Pramathesh, “I’ll just give it to the air hostess and tell her to hang on to it until we land.” “A lot of people take back mishti doi,” said Ranjit. He began to laugh in his unobtrusively nasty, dry manner, which meant that he was going to reveal something that had given him pleasure at someone else’s expense. “I saw a man standing in line for security at the airport with a huge bhaad of doi, and the next time I saw him the bhaad had fallen to ground and shattered, the yoghurt lay on the floor in a tragic mess: the poor man, he looked lost and heartbroken! I don’t think we’ll see him in Calcutta in a hurry!” After a few moments, Pramathesh said quietly, “I was thinking of taking back a picture … something nice—to hang up in the new flat.” “A picture?”