‘Cake!’ said Anchita, triumphantly. ‘Maa made. I told her how much you liked it the last time, so she baked this for you specially. Although I had half of it already. So eat.’

And Korok, trapped, had to.

Anchita opened another bag and took out a pair of slippers.

‘I got these for you. We didn’t go to Balangir to buy them, okay? Just my old pair. They’ll fit you. And I am just lending them to you. That’s all. I will take them back sometime.’

Korok bent over and looked at the slippers. The stickers had been freshly removed, and they were not old at all.

‘And some t-shirts and shorts. I haven’t worn them. Maa says I have far too many of them, anyway. They might be a little big for you. Anything would be big for you. But take them, please?’

And Korok, stuffing his mouth with the best vegetable dish he had had in a long time, nodded. Yes, he would. Although he did not know if the clothes were actually old ones or the epho’s family had gone to Balangir for him and wouldn’t tell him. So many new things had never been given to him at the same time, or in total, before in his life, so he was still thinking about it.

‘Did you sleep well?’ said Anchita, feeling the hardness of the bed and realising there was no mattress underneath. ‘I mean, do you sleep well, on this bed?’

Korok thought about it. He had been sleeping on the bed for a long time, and hadn’t really asked himself why he shouldn’t be sleeping well. He could sleep better than most people he knew, almost anywhere he was asked to. So he nodded and shook his head, and went back to eating as fast as he could.

Anchita got off the bed and looked around. It was the barest room she had ever been in. She had gone to an installation art exhibition once with her mother in Bhubaneshwar. This was when Anchita’s mother still thought her daughter would be interested in that kind of art and culture, because she could draw so well. As it turned out, Anchita had her own ideas about art.

The artist at the exhibition had wanted to show, in his words, ‘The Simple Life’. So it had been a bare room, with some furniture, a bed, some food on a table, just one spoon for some reason, and some paintings on the wall. A stack of books in a corner. From what Anchita understood, it was about the important things in life. Then the artist had started talking about people with French names to her mother and Anchita had immediately fallen asleep on her feet.