‘Why not this evening?’

After a slight hesitation, Debashish replied, ‘This evening … well, all right, why not?’

The two of them left together. It was nearly dark. When they neared Nripati’s house, they heard the tinkling notes of a piano being played.

A trio of bright lamps lit up the living room. A solitary man sat before the piano that occupied a corner of the room, intent on his performance.

Nripati walked in with Debashish and announced, ‘See, Probal. We have a new member in our group—Debashish Bhatta.’

Probal moved away from the piano and said in a tone of indifference, ‘We don’t need an introduction.’

‘Are you already acquainted?’ Nripati asked.

‘Slightly,’ Probal replied, ‘as much, in fact, as a rich man could be acquainted with a poor one like me.’ Probal went back to the piano and began to play it in a desultory fashion. His odd behaviour made it very clear that he was not particularly elated to see Debashish. Probal was a couple of years older than him. He was of medium build and had a muscular physique. His face was unexceptional, but gave off an animal magnetism. His eyes betrayed displeasure. Whatever he might have lacked by way of looks, he had acquired quite a reputation as a gifted singer. Some of his gramophone records had become popular and he was often invited to perform over the radio.

Probal and Debashish had not seen each other in years. At one time, they had gone to school together and knew each other fairly well. Then Debashish had finished his schooling and gone away to Delhi. This was the first occasion on which they were meeting since then. During this period, Debashish’s father had started a cosmetics factory called Butterfly Cosmetics and had amassed a fortune. Probal’s father had died of a heart attack and, consequently, their fortunes had dwindled. Probal’s career in music was barely keeping the family afloat.

Probal’s words had embarrassed Debashish a little. Nripati led him to a sofa at the other end of the room and began to talk to him. He explained, ‘About five or six young men come to my evening sessions, but not everyone comes every day. A few of the others will be arriving soon.’

Nripati offered the cigarette tin to Debashish who shook his head and said, ‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke.’

Nripati lit one for himself and lowered his voice as he explained, ‘Probal Gupta is a musician and a bit prickly about certain things. Don’t take his words to heart. Things will settle down in a while.’

At this moment, another young man came in and paused at the door. Clad in a silk suit, he was a handsome fellow with the stamp of refinement on his distinguished features. He was around twenty-four years old and seemed to be a person with a mind of his own. Nripati called out to him, ‘There you are, Kapil. Let me introduce you to each other: Kapil Bose, Debashish Bhatta.’

After the usual greetings had been exchanged, Kapil asked, ‘Nripatida, may I use your telephone? I just remembered something important on my way here.’

‘Yes, certainly. Go ahead.’

When Kapil had gone to the next room, Nripati remarked, ‘Kapil is a good sort. His father is unimaginably rich, but he himself isn’t any the worse for it. He doesn’t have any serious vices. He is educated, spends his days on the tennis court and at the billiards table and looks through his telescope at night to count the stars. But he has one flaw—he simply refuses to get married.’

Suddenly, Probal abandoned the piano and rose to his feet. He looked at Nripati and said, ‘I’ll be off today, Nripatida.’ He ignored Debashish.

Nripati asked, ‘So soon? Do you have a radio performance? I think I read in the newspaper this morning that you had a programme on the air tonight.’

‘I do,’ Probal replied, ‘but the music is already recorded. I don’t need to go to the studio tonight. I am going home.’

‘Home?’ Nripati asked. ‘Is everything all right with your wife?’

Probal’s voice was full of grief as he replied, ‘I forgot to tell you, Nripatida—my wife died a month ago. She was suffering from a congenital heart disease. The doctors explained that if such patients aren’t operated on before the age of fourteen, they invariably succumb to the ailment by the time they are twenty- one. My father-in-law had concealed his daughter’s condition from us when he got us married. All right then, goodnight.’

Nripati and Debashish were stunned. Probal’s wife had died and he had not said a word about it to any of his friends. He had merely come in, played the piano in a manner that suggested he was lost in thought, and gone away every day. Nripati knew that Probal’s wife had been suffering from a terminal disease, but the announcement had robbed him of his speech.

Just then, Kapil came in from the other room and walked up to them. He had not heard Probal’s words. He looked at Probal and remarked, ‘That was a nice tune you were playing. Were you leaving? Why don’t you sing us a song?’

Probal glared at him with hatred and muttered through clenched teeth, ‘My songs don’t come for free. One has to pay for them.’

Kapil was taken unawares by so rude a response. Then he composed himself and joked, ‘If I have to pay money, why would I hear you sing? Surely, there are better singers around?’

Without uttering another word, Probal rushed out of the room. Kapil sat back in a chair and lit a cigarette. Nripati murmured sheepishly, ‘Probal is out of sorts today.’

Kapil commented, ‘His temper is always on the rise. That’s his nature.’

‘His wife has died.’

Kapil was startled. ‘Is that true?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know about it. Damn! I was unduly harsh with him now.’

Nripati said, ‘Put it out of