n Tuesday, 28 September 1982, a taxi drew up in front of the house of the Niyogis in Baikunthapur. The Niyogis had once been the zamindars in the area. The durwan at the gate came forward, just as a middle-aged man got out of the taxi. He was of medium height. His cheeks were covered by a heavy stubble and his hair looked decidedly dishevelled. He wore a dark blue suit and tinted glasses. The driver took out a brown suitcase from the boot and put it down on the pavement. ‘Niyogi sahib?’ asked the durwan. The man nodded. The durwan picked up the suitcase. ‘Please come in,’ he said. ‘Babu has been waiting for you for some time.’ The present owner of the house, Soumyasekhar Niyogi, was reclining in an easy chair on the veranda. He nodded as the newcomer approached him and indicated a chair nearby. Soumyasekhar was nearly seventy. He was fairly well-preserved for his age, except that failing eyesight had necessitated wearing glasses with thick lenses. ‘Rudrasekhar?’ he asked. The newcomer took out a passport from his pocket and held it open for inspection. Soumyasekhar looked at it briefly and smiled. ‘Awful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You are my first cousin, and yet you have to show me your passport to prove it. But it’s easy enough to see that you’re a Niyogi.’ The other man looked faintly amused. ‘Never mind,’ Soumyasekhar continued, ‘I hope you got the letter I sent you after you wrote to me from Rome. What surprised us was that you didn’t get in touch all these years. Uncle left home in 1955, twenty-seven years ago. When he returned without you, we assumed there was a problem and you didn’t get on with each other. Uncle never talked about it, and we didn’t ask him anything, either. All we knew was that he had a son in Rome. Well, you’ve come now—I take it—to talk about the property?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I wrote to you, didn’t I, that the last time I received a postcard from your father was ten years ago? So, in the eyes of the law, he is no more. Have you spoken to a lawyer about this?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Very well. You can stay here for as long as you like, and look at everything we’ve got. You’ll find Uncle’s studio upstairs. His paintings, and canvases and colours are all still there, just as he had left them. We didn’t touch anything. Then there are the bank passbooks. You’ll need to see those, obviously. It may well take six months for all formalities to be completed. I hope you can stay that long?’ ‘Yes.’

‘You may have to travel to Calcutta from time to time. You’ve got a taxi, haven’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘We’ll arrange for your driver to stay here. No problem!’ ‘Gra . . . thanks!’ Rudrasekhar had started to say ‘Grazie’ in Italian, then changed his mind. ‘By the way, you wouldn’t mind eating Indian food every day, would you? I hear London has an Indian restaurant virtually at every street corner. What’s it like in Rome?’ ‘There are a few.’ ‘Well, that should help. I can only offer . . . why, Jagadish, what’s the matter?’ An old servant stood near the door. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Thumri . . . huzoor, Thumri is dead.’ ‘What! Dead?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why, Bhikhu just took her for a walk, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, but that was a long time ago. When neither of them returned when they should have, I went to look for them. I found Thumri’s body in the woods. Bhikhu has run away, huzoor.’ ‘I . . . don’t . . . believe . . . this!’ Soumyasekhar had always been interested in music. One of his two fox terriers was called Kajri. The other was Thumri. Kajri had died a natural death a couple of years ago. Thumri was eleven. Until a few hours ago, she was alive and in perfect health. Rudrasekhar rose quietly to his feet. The older man was clearly deeply distressed. He didn’t want to disturb him. It was time to find out where his room was.