Dr Sen arrived about twenty minutes later. He went up and began to examine Debashish. Dipa looked on from the threshold.

Following a few preliminary questions, the doctor checked the patient’s pulse, took his temperature and listened to the sounds of his chest with the stethoscope. While he was doing so, his eyes widened and he exclaimed, ‘Good God!’

Debashish said wanly, ‘Yes, Doctor. Everything is the other way round for me.’

Dipa looked at them intently, but Debashish did not elaborate further. The doctor nodded and continued his examination. Finally, he announced, ‘The chest is heavily congested. I’m giving you an injection—that should do the trick. I’ll come by again tomorrow morning. If need be, we can begin a course of treatment then.’ He gave his patient the injection, stroked his head affectionately and said, ‘No need to worry. You’ll be fine in a few days. Now go to sleep, son. I’ll be back at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Also, do keep your family physician informed about the situation.’

Dipa followed the doctor out of the room. When he had reached the head of the stairs, he said, ‘I observed something rather strange today …’

‘What is it?’

The doctor told her what he had discovered.

Within ten days, Debashish was fighting fit. Although he had been ill during that period, those ten days had been very pleasant ones for him. Dipa would come by occasionally, sit by his bed and chat with him. At mealtimes, she would go downstairs to fetch him his food. She was adamant about not leaving the responsibility to Nakul. At night, she’d check on Debasish surreptitiously; floating in the twilight zone between slumber and wakefulness, he never failed to sense it.

One day, when Debashish was almost fully recovered and propped up in bed with pillows as he read a book, Dipa came in with his cup of hot cocoa. He smiled at her as he took the cup from her hands. She sat down at the foot of the bed and said, ‘Dada had called. He’ll drop by this evening.’

Debashish did not answer. He took small sips from his drink and looked at her. Needless to say, during the time he’d been ill, someone or the other from Dipa’s family had dropped in to inquire after his health every day. In the beginning, his mother-in-law had come and stayed over for a couple of nights. But Dipa had not really approved of that.

Debashish sipped his cocoa and continued to gaze at her. Dipa began to grow uneasy. For want of anything better to say, she remarked, ‘I think the garden needs a few more crotons.’

Debashish, however, paid no heed. His voice was wistfully tender as he confessed, ‘Dipa, you may not love me, but I have fallen in love with you.’

The words came like a bolt from the blue. Dipa’s face turned crimson, then lost all colour in the space of a second. She made as if to leave the room with the words, ‘That must be the gardener. I must check on him.’

Debashish called her back. ‘Dipa, please come here,’ he pleaded.

She turned back, her heart thudding in her breast. The wistful expression was gone from his face as he handed her the empty cup and said in an amiable voice, ‘I’d like to invite a few of my friends to tea—just four or five, no more.’

Dipa heaved a great sigh of relief and asked, ‘When would that be?’

‘There’s no hurry. It’s a Sunday today … what about next Sunday?’

‘Fine.’

‘But I’d rather the food we served weren’t bazaar snacks. I’d prefer Nakul and you to prepare everything yourselves.’

‘Fine. We’ll do that.’

The days slipped by. Debashish went back to work. On Saturday evening, he dropped in on Nripati. Everyone there was glad to see him after such a long interval. Even Probal launched into a light, comic tune on the piano.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ Nripati observed.

Kharga Bahadur said, ‘My dear Debu, stuff yourself with sheekh kebabs and you’ll put on weight in no time at all.’

‘Oh stop it, Kharga!’ Kapil exclaimed. ‘You consume a kilo and a half of that stuff every day. Why don’t you gain weight, then?’

‘That’s because I play football,’ Kharga retorted. ‘We people never put on weight. Have you ever seen a fat footballer?’

‘But wrestlers and strongmen are often obese,’ Sujan countered. ‘I’ve heard their diet is heavy on pistachio nuts and pomegranate juice.’

At this point, Bijoy Madhav came in. He noticed Debashish and came up to him. ‘This is your first visit since your illness, right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is,’ Debashish replied.

‘Are you absolutely fit now?’

‘Yes.’

Not having received much encouragement from Debashish, Bijoy pulled a face and took a seat by the sofa. Debashish turned to the others and said, ‘I’ve come down to invite you all for tea. Tomorrow is a Sunday. Drop in any time after five-thirty. Does that suit all of you?’

Everyone agreed happily. But Kharga Bahadur said, ‘I have a match tomorrow; I’ll try and come as soon as I can make it. Will you serve sheekh kebabs with tea?’

‘You are incorrigible!’ Kapil declared. ‘Do kebabs go with tea at all? Their best companion is the bottle.’

Debashish turned to Probal. ‘You will be there, won’t you?’ he asked.

Probal replied, ‘I certainly will. I am never one to refuse an invitation to a rich man’s home. But, pray, what is the occasion? Are you celebrating your recovery from illness?’

‘I’d like to treat you to some snacks prepared by my wife,’ Debashish answered simply. ‘Bijoy, do come.’

‘Of course.’

The following evening, all the guests turned up at Debashish’s place, one by one. Even Kharga Bahadur was on time. ‘The match was cancelled,’ he explained. ‘We got a walkover.’

They sat chatting in the drawing room downstairs. When everyone had arrived, Debashish slipped into the kitchen and found Dipa