And, suddenly, they began. The people at the windows, on the other balconies. Applauding. Clapping. Cheering. Currency notes flying down from as high as four stories, in slow motion from terraces that Anirban never knew even existed, coins tossed from all rooms, people emptying their pockets on the lane. Like the Biblical manna from heaven, like the sweets that came down from the skies as Satyajit Ray's Goopy Bagha sang and danced during wartime in that all-time classic.
Rupee notes blocking out the corridor-like sky as if a huge kite festival was in progress. The tinkling of the coins falling on the ground making a noise drowning the sudden alert calls of the crows, their sleep broken by a non-existent dawn.
And then, as suddenly as everything had begun, it stopped. The windows slammed shut, the lights went off, the crows went back to sleep, the rickshaws stood lined as before, the boys slept, their cloths covering their faces as if nothing had moved.
Kaka was not to be seen. Anirban cupped his hands again. But the moon was gone. She was resting.
The next thing he knew was the wail of the siren, announcing that it was nine o'clock in the morning. He was late, terribly late, for work. The Darjeeling Accord. It was to be signed today. To supposedly quiet the hill frontier of Bengal, of which Kolkata was the provincial capital. Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and hill rebel leader Subhas Ghising. He had sheaves of overnight telex as well as agency copies to sort and arrange before the chief sub and the news editor walked in. The junior sub-editor's job in the morning was to do just that; keeping the meal ready for the bosses, they joked in the office canteen.
As he rushed to the loo, Anirban prepared himself for an assault in office.
