When he was done, I drank my own tea in a gulp and set the cup down, said nothing in response.

‘You remain unwilling to take me to your father?’

‘He lives out of town.’

‘Perhaps the next time he comes to town, then?’

‘He doesn’t—I take him everything he needs.’

‘You’re not making this especially easy.’

‘I see no reason to. And it is in my nature to be uncooperative.’

‘Yes. I see. Can I ask for your assurance that you will tell him about me? I can provide a vessel, provisions, everything. He will be well paid for his trouble.’ His voice was pleading now. ‘I feel sure he will want to help.’

‘I will speak to him,’ I said, finally. ‘You have my word. I do not expect he will be able to help you.’

MY FATHER IN THE LEAF LITTER

MY FATHER IN THE LEAF LITTER

I no longer make the long journey to my father’s house.

I remember doing it that day because it was one of the last times: out along the ridgeline that tracked south-west into the open country beyond town, and then into the enfolding forest. I undertook it often enough back then, the hours of it, the mare and me alone in the trees. This time it was a Sunday in late November, and I went bearing a dozen eggs, a brace of dull-eyed fish and the request from Srinivas for an appointment.

The way out to my father’s house began in the early morning as a road, but for most of its length was barely a cart-track. In its lust for expansion, the settlement was very quick to tell you what a road was, and the grandees were very quick to attach their names. This track had no name: it was an informality, an idea shared by others who had retreated to the hills. No signposts, no nameplates on the houses.

I was still unnerved by my encounter with the old Bengali. The ferocity of his speech, the idea that emotional wounds could remain as bright and fierce over a lifetime as they were the day they were inflicted. I knew already that the wisest thing I could do was to keep myself and my father out of the reach of this drowning man, lest he pull us both under.

I was nervous now, in fact, twitching and straining to listen to every sound the bush made. When I stopped to eat, I crouched with my back to the trunk of a tree, peering out and even behind it. This was not my normal state. I climbed back on the mare with a look over my shoulder. The man’s fixation was contagious, and now it was me with the wild eyes.

The mare threw her head and shied once or twice when we were deep in the hills. The contagion had afflicted her, too.