There were still hardly any art galleries in Calcutta. And the idea of buying a painting—and not a print—was still an unusual one. But recently, at a cocktail party in a superior’s bungalow in Delhi, Pramathesh’s wife had noticed an original Nandalal Bose. Not that she’d known it was an original; but someone told her it was. Returning to their flat, she’d said it might be a good idea to buy a decent painting for their drawing room; it would be their first stab at creating a status that would be in accordance with Pramathesh’s professional life. Now, Ranjit racked his brains and said, “Well, I know where Gopal Ghosh lives; we could go there.” Of course, owning a Gopal Ghosh may not be owning a Picasso; but his paintings were held in high regard. Just as Pramathesh’s career as a chartered accountant and an employee was at the fledgling stage, so was the Indian art world, with its ambivalences and lack of self-belief. Paradoxically, it was those who might be accused of not understanding art who would nourish it, unknowingly, through this delicate moment, setting up a concomitance between its life and theirs. It was as if their lives were destined, in some sense, to be connected and to grow together, though this must not be seen to be so.