He turned the object around in his palm. To the right of the mound was a tiny bird, unmistakably a pigeon, clearly and carefully modelled – feathers, eyes and all. Growing out of the other side of the mound was a little protuberance, like the amputated stub of an arm. The arm had a small metal object attached; Murugan could not tell what it was – all he could see of it was a little metallic cylinder. He brought the figurine closer, examining it carefully, trying to work out what the metal object represented.

Then once again he was interrupted: 'Mister; I find you; what you doing here?' The boy was peering over the wall, his face right above Murugan's head, laughing.

Murugan lost his temper. 'Get out of my sight, you son of a bitch,' he shouted.

The boy made a leering face and wagged his head. Then he caught sight of the figurine in Murugan's hand. He shot out an arm and snatched the object from Murugan.

Murugan lunged at the figurine, but his hand caught the boy's fist and knocked it out. It crashed to the ground, on the other side of the wall. The boy dropped off the wall and fell to his knees beside it.

Pulling his head up, Murugan looked over the wall. The boy was on all fours, gathering up the pieces of broken clay. He looked at Murugan over his shoulder and spat out a curse.

'You asked for it,' Murugan said. 'It's not my fault.' Keeping his back to the wall, Murugan began to move to his left, stepping carefully over the excrement and debris. He came to a stop at a dilapidated red-brick outhouse, built so close to the ground that it was almost completely hidden by the boundary wall. The structure seemed like an abandoned shell, with branches of peepul growing out of the cracked plaster and grinning holes marking the old windows and doorways..

Murugan pushed his head gingerly through a gaping window. 'Hello,' he called out. 'Anyone there?'

Suddenly there was a flapping, whooshing sound and he was hit in the face. A flock of pigeons swirled past, brushing his face with their feathers.

Murugan threw himself back and covered his head with his arms. A sound rang in his ears; it was only after a few seconds had passed that he realized he had screamed. Then he heard a pebble strike the ground, beside him. He looked up and saw the boy, hanging over the boundary wall, his arm flexed to throw another stone.

Murugan ducked through a passageway, into the main drive and headed for the hospital's gates, at a run. Several taxis were waiting at the entrance, on Gokhale Road. Murugan jumped into one and slammed the door. 'Let's go,' he cried, 'let's go, move it.'

The Sikh taxi driver turned to look at him, unhurriedly. 'Go where?' he said, in Hindi.

' Robinson Street,' Murugan said, gasping breath. 'Between Loudon and Rawdon Street.'

The driver turned the ignition key. The old Ambassador started up with a roar and pulled slowly away.

Murugan sat crouched by the window, scanning the road and the pavements. Seeing no sign of the boy, he sank back into the seat. His eyes fell on his shoes; they were covered with brown stains. He caught a whiff of a foul odour and thrust his feet under the front seat, hoping the smell would not reach the driver. But the odour lingered; he couldn't rid himself of it. He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand, took the shoes off and dropped them out of the window.

He sank into his seat, breathing a sigh of relief. But a moment later there was a thud on the back windshield. He looked around just in time to see his second shoe flying through the air. It struck the window and bounced off, leaving a long brown stain on the glass.

The driver stuck his head out of the window and began to shout at the boy, who was racing towards them through the traffic. Then the lights changed, the cars behind began to sound their horns and the taxi pulled away.

As the taxi turned into Lower Circular Road, he glanced over at the brilliantly lit facade of the Rabindra Sadan auditorium. He noticed two women hurrying down the stairs, and thrust his head out of the window. The taxi was moving a little faster now and he only had a brief glimpse of them, heading for the gate.

He was almost certain they were the two women he'd spoken to earlier in the evening.

Chapter 9

THE ARTICLE IN the LifeWatch newsletter was wrong on one point. There was only one meeting between Murugan and a representative of the Personnel Department before Murugan's departure for Calcutta.

One morning Antar arrived at his cubicle at LifeWatch's headquarters on West 57th Street to find a file waiting on his screen: it contained a complete record of Murugan's requests for reassignment. Antar was sure that the file had been routed to him by mistake: he was only techically a member of Personnel; he dealt almost exclusively with accounts. He lost no time in shooting off a query to the Director of his department. A couple of hours later the Director sent him a message asking him to drop by.

The Director was a serious and conscientious Swede who never lost an opportunity to remind his staff that their real business was caring. 'Let's get you away from your screen for a bit,' he said to Antar. 'I've got a more human job for you today.' He called up Murugan's file and took Antar through it. 'See if you can't talk some sense into this man Murugan: hard economic sense, I mean. Tell him about pension schemes and medical benefits and all that sort of thing. You'll see from the records that this gentleman already pays out a third of his salary in alimony: effectively he's not going to be earning anything if he goes off to Calcutta on this wild-goose chase.'

Antar E-mailed Murugan that very afternoon. A couple of days later, shortly before the lunch break, Antar heard a loud, screeching voice echoing through the department's open-plan office. He knew at once who it was even though he could not see him from his cubicle.

Murugan was carolling greetings to his acquaintances: 'Hey there, how are you doing on this fine day? Enjoying the low pollen count?'

Antar and his neighbour in the next cubicle exchanged startled glances.

The voice rose several decibels: 'Which one of you is called Ant… Ant…?'

'Over here,' Antar shouted, jumping to his feet. He found himself holding his hand aloft, like a schoolboy, so that it peeped out over the plywood top of his cubicle.

'Stay right where you are Ant,' Murugan called out cheerfully. 'I'll find my way to you.'

A minute later he appeared at the entrance to Murugan's cubicle; a dapper, pot-bellied man, in a dark three-piece suit and a felt hat. They were about the same age, Antar estimated; both in their early forties.

'Hey there, Ant,' Murugan said, beaming at him, holding out his hand. 'This is some heap you've built yourself out here.'

Disconcerted by the man's manner, Antar gave him a thin smile and gestured at a chair. Pulling out a list of figures he plunged straight into the little speech he had prepared, explaining why a move to Calcutta would be a career disaster.

Murugan sat through the monologue in silence, stroking his goatee, his bright, piercing eyes fixed on Antar. When Antar ran out of breath and paused, he gave him a nod of encouragement.

'Go on, Ant,' he said, 'I'm listening.'

Antar had saved his trump card for the last. He played it now. 'And have you thought about your payments?' he began. Halted by a momentary twinge of embarrassment, he stopped to clear his throat. 'Your payments to your ex-wife, I mean?' he said. 'You'll barely have enough to support yourself if you go ahead with this.'

Suddenly Murugan leaned forward, looking into Antar's eyes. 'You ever been married, Ant?' he said.

Startled, Antar fell back in his chair. Without meaning to, he nodded.