In the park, the evening editions of the dailies sold out in a flash. They explained the state of the times in both text and pictures. News of “runaway wives” commanded front-page headlines in big, bold letters, making men wonder if they could reasonably expect their wives to be there when they returned home. Those who managed to memorize the news acquired special prestige among friends. They were like newsreels on legs. Once these news hoarders became beacons of wisdom, they had to work hard to keep their reputation. So they tired themselves out, running to every free reading room in the area and cramming as much as they could into their heads. They no longer had the time even to stop and look at a drongo bird for a minute, or to lose themselves in the gentle flow of the river, or to walk by the shore looking for seashells.

A professor walked into the park, clad in a long-sleeved jibba and a stole draped around his neck that reached down to his knees. He had a stately bearing, his face mature beyond his years and hence smug, and eyes that surveyed all that they saw. The moment they saw him, the students sitting around smoking cigarettes on the lawn jumped up in unison and hid their cigarettes behind their backs in one quick, uniform motion. They lowered their chins and tried to blow out smoke from their mouths in little wisps, trying to making it look like they were blowing to cool off sweat. “Good evening, sir!” they said. The professor looked pleased. Like a table fan turning, he moved his head in two semicircular arcs and said, “So you are all here on the lawn.”

“Yes, sir,” said the students.

“A most pleasant breeze, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Excellent breeze,” they answered in unison.

The students feared he might start reciting some classical Tamil verse. The look on his face suggested that the thought did occur to him, but he decided otherwise. He walked away, saying, “Good, good, carry on.” Perhaps his problem was just that one too many songs came to his mind at the same time.