One such day, Sahil chanced upon a dead body that looked different than the other corpses he would have encountered on the pavements. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that it was a Japanese man, a soldier perhaps. Had he fallen from the sky, Sahil wondered, looking around to check if there was any smoke from some kind of wreckage. There was no sign of a plane crash. He was still puzzled, but the grumbling in his belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in a day. He checked the man’s pockets for food. Since there was nothing, he pried the dead man’s watch from his wrist. It didn’t work – the glass face had cracks and the time had stopped at 10:23 a.m. Sahil didn’t quite know why he had stolen it, but it would serve as a reminder of one of the darkest phases of his life – a memento that told him to survive at all costs. That was the last time he performed music on the streets.

But in Danpada, he belted song after song with gusto – tunes he had written in Urdu took on a Koli strut without missing a beat. The weather-beaten community of fishermen were treated to the best of the maestro’s compositions. Sahil then gestured for Meera to join in. His furious fingers pounded a holding tune, waiting for Meera to start. It was his way of initiating Meera into a session with him. For a moment, her mind raced back to the night Abhimanyu had set up the surprise performance at Bhairo’s sabha. The grimy streets of Danpada were a far cry from the splendour of the Orient Club and Malik’s bold commands quite the opposite of Abhimanyu’s gentle encouragement, but Meera’s sense of dread remained the same. However, she could not ignore Sahil’s infectious joie de vivre and joined him. Soon, a few more members of the orchestra who had come looking for Sahil joined the gathering as well. The sleepy village by the sea was suffused with voices, amateur and professional, along with rudimentary and sophisticated instruments, all coming together to reach a crescendo.