Isakki, the journalist, was coming down College Road toward the clock-tower junction. He acted like he was out on a stroll in the moonlight. He had a jaunty rhythm to his gait, and he stopped quite frequently to say hello to people and chat with them. Genially, he pulled aside a few passersby for a chat, and he laughed loudly and heartily. It was clear that he was not on one of his expeditious missions to gather precious bits of news. Usually, he was in a hurry, and it was the kind of hurry only to impress others. The way he saw it, it was all part of the esteem that he accrued as a newspaper reporter. So moments such as these, when he wafted into town like a gentle breeze, were very rare indeed. He considered himself not only a journalist but also an artist, so he knew how important it was to set aside time in the middle of a demanding day to prepare himself to be a creative writer in the future. He often told his fans and the young writers who came to meet him that, sometimes, unique perspectives occurred to him on these strolls and unique sights caught his eye, all of which then led to the dawning of many unique ideas. He also told his readers that his next project would be his greatest creation, but they were never going to read it, because he was sure that it would be banned the moment it was printed. It was sure to make headlines and lead to serious debates in the legislative assembly. No doubt, it would be a terrible headache for the authorities and for the politicians too. But these things cannot be avoided. You cannot fire a gun and expect a piece of cotton to come flying out—it has to be a bullet.

Isakki’s clothes had come back from the laundry that morning. For two days, he had had to step out wearing rumpled and somewhat soiled clothes. But today, as if to make up for it, he left home in clean white khaddar clothes. His creative spirit came alive on the days his laundry was returned. On such days, he was an artist wandering around town. So saying that the arrival of his laundry led to his stroll that day is like saying two plus two equals four.

He was thin, skeletal, all skin and bones. His face looked like a bicycle seat, wide skull tapering into a pointed jaw. His eyes, sunken in the deep hollows of his face, could be disturbing at first sight. They looked like someone had taken a chisel and gouged out two hollows where eyes should have been. When he laughed, his eyes completely disappeared into their sockets. And since he laughed a great deal, both genuinely and in pretense, it was quite rare to see his eyes at all.