‘The hotel doesn’t have an agreeable appearance, but the kebabs are fantastic!’ Usman said.

‘Thank you, Usman Bhai, you showed us a good place,’ Asrar acknowledged.

They stood near the signal for long, talking while observing the environment around.

Usman entered a bookshop, collected the desired books, paid at the counter and left. Asrar remarked, ‘We had books like these in our school library.’

‘They are books of adab literature,’ Usman said.

‘Are they books to learn etiquette from?’ Qasim asked.

Usman and Haider smiled. Asrar said, ‘Don’t you remember our Urdu teacher telling us to read books of adab to learn aadaab [etiquette]?’

Usman put his arms on Qasim’s shoulders and said, ‘Your Urdu teacher was mad. The function of adab books is very different!’

‘What is their function then?’ Qasim asked.

Ali could not gather what to say; hence he replied, ‘Literature is a disease, and its cure is also reading literature.’

‘I didn’t get you,’ Suleiman interjected.

Asrar was not listening to all this. He was in his own world looking at the footpath—the JJ flyover, vehicles crawling on the roads, people peeping out of the windows of double-decker buses, a crowd of people approaching the area and surrounding buildings. The flyover seemed like a huge snake to him. A wish arose in his heart to see the view of the city from this flyover. He was intrigued by the chaos of life that Mohammad Ali Road had brought him face to face with. He had heard stories of the busy streets, fast life and the hustle-bustle of Mumbai since childhood. Now he was witnessing all of it through his own eyes. He wanted to capture these images in his heart.

The debate on the literary books had ended by now. Usman and Haider told Suleiman and Qasim about Chor Bazaar. Both showed interest in seeing the market. Asrar was walking a few steps ahead. Qasim called out to him and informed him that they were all headed towards Chor Bazaar.

Chor Bazaar proved to be a museum. Asrar was astonished at the kinds of items that were being sold. Old and exotic coins from various countries, old currency notes, radios and television sets he had never seen, furniture, toys, parts of vehicles, clothes, pretty vases and ornamental and etched showpieces, paintings—some real and mostly fake—magazines and books, expensive pens, gramophones, video cassettes—none of which he had seen before. A donkey stood nearby. Qasim gaped at it and asked, ‘Do they sell donkeys here too?’

‘You ask a lot of donkey-like questions,’ Usman said, smacking Qasim on the head.

Asrar saw an old man who looked like a Sufi selling rings, gems and colorful stones. He wore turquoise beads around his neck, rings on his fingers and had a messy beard. Stones in varied colours attracted Asrar’s attention. They were blue, shiny blue, red, blood red, white as coconut, orange and light-yellow stones. He sat down to look at them when the old man said, ‘The red stone will change your fate, boy.’