Menon had his clinic, his legs had stopped quivering. But to his dismay, he found the entrance to the street blocked by an enormous plywood cut-out of the chief minister of the state. It leaned against the wall of a building and was so large that it stretched right across to the other side of the street. A man was perched on scaffolding high above the ground, touching up the face of the cutout with a large flat brush. Along the scaffolding, he had hung a tray with cans of paint that he dipped into every few minutes. Sripathi clucked his tongue in irritation and came to a stop. “What is going on here?” he asked. “How do you expect people to go through?” “Other way,” shouted the sign painter, pausing to look down at Sripathi. “What do you mean ‘other way’? I don’t have time to circle the entire town to get to the other end of this street,” protested Sripathi. “This is Madam Chief Minister’s portrait. Urgently required. Cannot be moved without permission,” said the man, busily darkening the eyebrows on the enormous chief ministerial visage.
