Still lolling in bed?!’ There was no sound more revolting or hateful to the ears than that voice which plucked me rudely from my garden of dreams. I was under the bower of the giant banyan with Seppy. Of all our numerous hideouts in the forest, this was her favourite. But in that instant, when Buchia’s hideous falsetto impinged on my consciousness, she was gone. A wretched fatigue hugged every inch of my body like a lover. On my threadbare mattress, I clung to traces of remembered sweetness, longing for more sleep, but knew it would be denied me. . . The flimsy front door of my tenement was being slammed and rattled with an ugly insistence. Presently, the odious shrieking came again: ‘Two minutes is all I’m giving you! Not out by then, straightaway I’m dialling Coyaji’s number. And so much the better if he’s mad for being woken at this hour. . .I’ll tell him everything: fucking corpses have begun to stink, mourners are congregating, but your chief khandhia’s still in bed, pissed out of his skull.’ Abusive harangue, the crunch of footsteps on gravel.
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