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jamun in his mouth? No wonder the boy has turned out like this, spending his life at the bottom of a ladder.’
    Sampath sat between them, looking as if he might just keel over.
    ‘He is like this,’ said Pinky, painting her nails in the morning sun that streamed through the window and surveying her hands with satisfaction. ‘He is like this by nature. But he should buy new shoes from Bata. Looking like that, he will not get anywhere.’
    ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ said Ammaji. ‘His stars are good. This is just a temporary phase. Give him a good head massageevery day and the obstruction to his progress will go away.’
    ‘Phoo!’ Mr Chawla snorted. ‘Progress! Ever since he was born, this boy has been progressing steadily in the wrong direction. Instead of trying to work his way upwards, he started on a downward climb and now he is almost as close to the bottom as he could ever be.’
    ‘But the world is round,’ said Ammaji, pleased by her own cleverness. ‘Wait and see! Even if it appears he is going downhill, he will come up out on the other side. Yes, on top of the world. He is just taking the longer route.’
    ‘He is not taking any route, I tell you. He has missed the route altogether. He is just sitting by the side playing with flies.’ Mr Chawla turned back to Sampath, who had closed his eyes, imagining a long and peaceful sleep in a cool dark place. ‘Come on,’ his father urged him. ‘Get ready for work. It’s nine o’clock. Why are you still sitting here like a potato?’ He twitched with impatience. ‘What is the matter with this family? I am the only one with any sense of responsibility, any idea of the way things work in this world. If it wasn’t for me, Sampath would be sitting in a special museum for people who are a cross between potatoes and human beings.’ In the tone of a tour guide, he intoned: ‘Watch how this peculiar vegetable spends its day.’ And, to show just what he thought of the way this peculiar vegetable spent its day, he picked up his lunch box and marched, each footstep firm and loud, down the stairs on his way to work.
    ‘Pheasants, peacocks, pomegranates, potatoes … poor Sampath,’ murmured Kulfi to herself.

4
    The post office, like so many government buildings, was painted yellow. Over the years, it had faded to match perfectly the haze of dust that enveloped Sampath each time he bicycled in to work. He took a short cut that led down the main bazaar road, through the hospital grounds and then under the barbed-wire fence that had been erected about the post office compound to establish it as a place sacred to official order and duty. Naturally, the barbed-wire fence was not entirely intact, for the residents of Shahkot, never ones to respect such foolish efforts, had set to work as quickly as they could to dismantle this unfortunate obstruction. All about their own houses and in their gardens and courtyards, they discovered a sudden need for wire; and all through the day, while, say, picking an annoying wedge of betel nut from between their teeth, or lifting their feet into a friendly lap for a foot massage, inspiration for wire-use struck them. They had always wanted to scratch their names upon the bark of a certain tree or across the dome of a certain protected monument. A curtain needed hooks. A gate, some sort of latch. There was a plant that would not stand up straight. A goat that tried to eat the plant. A dog that tried to bite the goat. An urgent need for fencing close to home. Soon there were gaps all around, and wherever there weren’t, one person or another had worked the wire up on stakes or trampled itdown to allow for free movement about the town.
    And so the post office stood in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Shahkot. Schoolchildren, beggars, potters and signboard painters. Cows and pigs and water buffaloes. Ikebana class teachers from the polytechnic. Mathematics tutors. Clerks from the asthma institute, and cooks. Lady doctors and the