When I entered the drawing room, I saw Sandip sitting with his back to the door, deeply engrossed in a book—a catalogue of paintings exhibited at the British Academy. Sandip considers himself quite the connoisseur of art. One day, my husband told him that if artists ever needed a guru, as long as Sandip was alive, there would be no shortage of suitable candidates.

It is not my husband’s nature to make such pointed remarks, but lately his temperament has changed a little—he never misses a chance to prick Sandip’s pride.

Sandip said, “Do you think artists no longer need to be made into disciples?”

My husband replied, “People like us will always have to keep learning new lessons from artists about art, because there is no single, fixed lesson in this field.”

Sandip laughed heartily, mocking my husband’s humility. He said, “Nikhil, you think poverty itself is the greatest asset—the more you invest it, the more your wealth will grow. But I say,

He who has no pride is like moss upon the current, drifting aimlessly on all sides.”

My mind was in a strange state. On one hand, I wished that my husband would win the argument, that Sandip’s pride would be humbled a little. Yet, it was precisely Sandip’s unabashed pride that drew me—like the dazzling sparkle of a precious diamond, it could never be shamed; it would not even concede defeat to the sun itself, rather, its defiance would only grow stronger.

I entered the room. I knew Sandip had heard the sound of my footsteps, but he pretended not to, and kept his eyes fixed on the book as if engrossed. I was afraid he might begin to speak of art again. For, under the pretext of art, Sandip loved to discuss with me certain pictures and their meanings, and I had not yet grown accustomed to such conversations without feeling embarrassed. To hide my embarrassment, I had to pretend that there was nothing in it to be ashamed of.

So, for a moment, I thought of turning back—when suddenly Sandip heaved a deep, heavy sigh, raised his face, and, catching sight of me, seemed to start in surprise. He said, “Ah, so you have come!”

In his words, in the tone of his voice, in his eyes, there was a subtle reproach. I was in such a state that I accepted even that reproach. The claim Sandip had come to have over me...

Even my absence for two or three days seems to be a crime!

I know that this grievance of Sandip is, in truth, an insult to me, but where is the strength in me to be angry?

Without giving any reply, I remained silent. Although I was looking away, I could feel clearly that Sandip’s two eyes, full of complaint, were as if sitting right before my face, refusing to move. What a situation this is! Sandip picks up some topic, and I try to hide behind it for a little