Squinting at the page she read: 'Leave approved for Surgeon-Colonel D. D. Cunningham, Presidency General Hospital, Calcutta, 10-15 January… '

Urmila cast a quick glance at the clock above the dining table. She really had no time to lose now, not a minute; if she didn't get the fish done in the next ten minutes she would be late for the press conference.

She knew she ought to get on with the cooking. But instead she found herself pulling out the two other bits of paper left in the plastic bag.

The next page was even more puzzling than the first. It was a copy of a sheet of paper with a list of names under an elaborate and unfamiliar logo. Holding the logo up to the light, she saw that it said 'South-Western Railways'. Handwritten beneath it were the words: '10 January 1898, Passenger list, Compartment 8'. Under this was a list of names. Urmila looked quickly through them; they seemed like British names. She read a couple of them to herself, spelling them out slowly: Major Evelyn Urquhart, D. Craven, Esq., Sir Andrew Acton… ' Then she noticed that a name at the bottom of the list had been underlined. It was: 'C. C. Dunn, Esq.'.

That's strange, she thought. The other name was D. D. something.

She didn't bother to look. She pushed the page aside and spread out the only remaining sheet.

It was a copy of another page of The Colonial Services Gazette. This one was dated 30 January 1898. She cast a quick glance over it: another long list of transfers, leaves approved, positions filled. Again one of the announcements was underlined. It read: 'The public is notified that Surgeon-Colonel D. D. Cunningham is currently on leave pending his retirement. He will be replaced by SurgeonMajor Ronald Ross of the Indian Medical Service.'

'Haven't you started cooking yet, Urmi?' her mother called out from the bedroom. 'It's getting late.'

Urmila started. She was furious with herself now for wasting so much time staring at used Xerox paper. She snatched the sheets off the shelf, flung them aside and hurried over to the sink.

The paper-wrapped fish had turned into a stinking, glutinous mess. It was all she could do not to vomit into the sink.

Chapter 26

SUDDENLY URMILA found herself shaking with indignation. She knew she was on the verge of one of those periodic seizures of outrage which sometimes gripped her when she was working on her investigative articles. She was so angry now that she stopped caring about the time about the press conference at the Great Eastern, the news editor, even the Minister of Communications from Delhi. She stuffed the pieces of fish back into the plastic bag and marched to the door. On her way out she snatched up the sheets of Xerox paper, crumpling them into a ball, in her fist.

Her mother had come out of her bedroom to see what the matter was. Her mouth fell open, seeing Urmila marching out of the flat in her grease-spattered sari, clutching a ball of paper and a bag of fish. 'Where are you going, Urmi?' she cried.

'I'm going to return this fish,' Urmila said, letting herself out. 'We can't eat this: it'll kill us. Look at this filthy paper it's wrapped in. I'm going to make that man take it back: I paid more than a hundred rupees for this fish. I'm not going to be cheated like this.'

The front door of their flat opened on a narrow, corridorlike veranda that served three other apartments beside their own. Urmila was certain she would find the fish-seller outside, knocking on the doors of the other flats. But the veranda was empty: she looked to her right and then to her left. There was no sign of the young man with the basket of fish.

Urmila stood undecided for a moment and then she went to the neighbouring door and rang the bell. Several minutes later the door opened and a middle-aged man dressed in pyjamas and a cotton vest looked out suspiciously. 'Yes?' he said. 'What do you want?'

Urmila was momentarily at a loss for words: a long history of disputes and quarrels lay between this family and hers. Trying to smile, she said: 'Did a fish-seller ring your bell this morning? A young man in a T-shirt and a checked lungi?'

The man looked her over sardonically, his eyes travelling slowly from the plastic bag stuffed with fish to her crumpled spice-stained sari.

Urmila held her ground. 'Did you see him?' she said again.

'No,' said the man. 'We were asleep until you rang the bell.'

'What?' said Urmila. 'The fish-seller didn't come here? With the basket… '

'What did I tell you?' the man snapped. 'Didn't I tell you we were fast asleep?' He slammed the door on her.

Urmila ran up one flight to the fourth floor, the highest in the building. The floors in their building were exactly alike, each with four identical flats, lined up next to each other along an open veranda. There was no sign of the fishseller on the fourth floor. She turned and went pelting down, stopping at each landing to look up and down the long verandas. The man wasn't anywhere in the building so far as she could tell. She checked the veranda on the ground floor twice, and then ran out to the small paan shop on the pavement, near the entrance to the building.

The stall-owner was sitting cross-legged on the counter, saying a prayer before starting the day's work. She had to wait until he opened one eye. 'What's this?' he said, in surprise, staring at her dishevelled hair and her crumpled night-time sari. 'Why are you outside in this state?'

She asked him about the fish-seller, and he shook his head: 'No, I haven't seen anyone; I've just got here, as you can see.'

She turned on her heel and headed down the road. 'Where are you going?' the paan-wallah called after her.

'I'm not going to let that man rob me in broad daylight,' she said. 'I'm going to find him and get my money back.'

The paan-wallah gave a derisory laugh. 'It's no use,' he said. 'Those vendors are too clever for the likes of you.'

'We'll see!' Urmila shouted back, over her shoulder.

RashBehari was thronged with its usual morning crowd of pedestrians, some hurrying towards Lansdowne, some towards Gariahat. People turned to stare at Urmila as she went marching along swinging her clenched fists. There were a few jeers and catcalls from loiterers, standing against the railings and squatting by the road. Urmila walked on, oblivious of her soiled sari and her soggy bag of fish.

She turned into a lane, off RashBehari, and almost before she knew it she was standing before a pair of tall wroughtiron gates. A portly chowkidar in khaki uniform was on guard at the gate. Right above him was an elaborately carved marble nameplate, set deep in the wall. It bore the name 'Romen Haldar' written in richly ornamented, cursive Bengali.

The chowkidar looked her up and down, suspiciously. 'What's your business here?' he said, placing himself in front of her, rapping his stick on his thigh.

Urmila pushed him aside, barely pausing in her stride. 'You don't need to concern yourself with my business,' she said. 'You stay where you are and think about your own business.'

She marched off, down the driveway towards the covered porch that led into the house. The chowkidar gave chase, waving his stick and shouting: 'Stop: You can't go in.'

'Tell me something,' Urmila threw back at him, over her shoulder. 'Did the fish-seller come here today?'

'What fish-seller?' said the chowkidar. 'We don't have any fish-sellers coming here. Do you know whose house this is?'

'Yes,' said Urmila.

With a sudden burst of speed, the chowkidar ran around her, trying to block the driveway. But Urmila was used to forcing her way past doorkeepers and secretaries; he was no match for her. She stepped around him, unimpressed. He followed, mouthing imprecations.