On the days that his mother worked late, Josh Sen, custodian of the plum-headed parakeets Optimus Prime and Max, would convince his dad, distinguished professor of something very important but difficult to remember, to drive by the Kharkai and Subarnarekha rivers. Not that Vikramjit needed much convincing. He loved the Marine Drive (though he would have preferred a different name, one which did not invariably occasion the patronising ‘Oh yes, the other Marine Drive’ nod-and-head-bob from Bombaywallahs).

Sometimes they would chat — updates about one’s birds or the other’s students were exchanged — but, mostly, Josh would roll down the window (something his mother never allowed since the breeze interfered with her hair), stick his head out, and let the wind slap noisily against his cheeks. His father, who had grown up with dogs, delighted in his son’s canine behaviour, folded up the sleeves of his Brooks Brothers shirts, and sang along to the radio. Eventually, they ended up at Brubeck, back in the city, and gorged on cakes. Tilo monitored Josh’s “refined sugar” intake during the week strictly, but father and son had perfected the art of operating on a strict “what-Tilo-doesn’t-know-can’t-hurt-Tilo” principle.

“Should we check in on Pixie and her folks?” Vik asked Josh that evening, after they had completed their usual run and turned towards the city again.

Josh took his time to reply. He could be reflective after his drawing class.

“Before or after we order the cake?” Josh asked finally.

“If we go before, we could take some cakes for them. If we go after, we could bring Pixie with us to Brubeck. And order the cake then. It all depends on how hungry you are now.”

“Not hungry. Miss gave us lots of cookies,” Josh replied. His drawing teacher was a flaky young Parsi artist who lived in one of those beautiful rambling colonial buildings and seemed to survive only on cookies and milk, which she set out before her students as she randomly showed them great works of art projected on the living room wall. The kids adored Miss Daruwalla.

“Don’t mention the cookies to Ma though. She might give Miss...”

“A lecture. I know. What happened to your healthy snack, by the way?”

Josh rummaged in his bag and extracted a little tiffin-box, in posh blue chrome, and presented to his father. Vik, who had his own chrome blue box in his bag somewhere, quickly wolfed down the cold quinoa cutlet with its side of home-made tomato relish. He could not stand quinoa and the coldness settled like an icy chrome-blue feeling in his stomach, with angry red lashings curling around it, like memories of the tomato relish. “Let’s go over to their guest house then and see how Pixie is settling in?”

Josh handed his father his water bottle, also chrome blue.

“Is Pixie going to be invited to my birthday?” Josh sounded neutral enough.

“I am sure,” Vik replied, allowing the water to unglue himself from that feeling, handing the bottle back to his son and starting the car. “In fact, Tilo has probably already invited them. Why?”

“She will go on and on about London. And my friends will find her lame.”

“Now now,” Vik said, accelerating the car.

“And then we went St James’ Park, and then we had tea with the Queen,” Josh mimicked Pixie’s accent, in an accurate if cruel fashion. “Maybe she’ll expect an Enid Blyton kind of high tea? With meringues and potted meat and ham and sardines and jam tarts.”

Vik narrowed his eyes and looked at his son.

“Josh Sen, is that what you want?”

“Whaatt?” Josh said innocently.

***

Several well-appointed flats, airy and central, had been turned by the company into a group of serviced apartments, which offered greater privacy to long-term residents than the old-fashioned guesthouses. A centralised hospitality desk offered luxuries such as room service and turn down (which, since she’d had to pick up after everyone in London, felt like an unbelievable luxury to Nisha) and the kitchen provided food which, while not exciting, was adequate.

One such apartment, off Kadma, was currently occupied by the Das Biswas-es, and its living room, with white walls, regulation sofas and severe landscapes, was currently caught in a terrific squall. Nisha was firm. The polka-dotted puppy who had been found under the mango tree must be returned to that spot. She had a toddler; she was not going to get another creature to look after; she was already at the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“But I am going to look after him myself, Mama, I promise, I promise,” Pixie wailed. “And Lisa Didi can help me.” Lisa was the nanny. She lurked in the doorway and followed the war. She had fed some milk to the puppy and was on his side.

“Lisa Didi has her hands full. So do I. We will go back and return the puppy. I can’t believe you smuggled him in when we expressly told you not to!”

Nisha’s face was thunderous. Bappa hovered around the flat — unable to take a stand — and had now decided to escape inside and call up admin to find out about the serviced apartment’s policy on pets.

Pixie, equally firm, announced that if the puppy was going back to the mango tree, so was she. “Lisa Didi, pack my bag,” Pixie called out.

Nisha couldn’t decide what she should be madder about. The damn dog. Or her daughter ordering about Lisa so blithely.

“Pixie,” Nisha began ominously when there were footsteps outside and the bell rang.

Bappa reappeared, phone glued to his ears, and breathed a sigh of relief after he opened the door.

“Vikramjitda, welcome, welcome. We have a bit of a situation here. In fact, you can help! Come in please. Hello, Josh.”

The puppy, meanwhile, had hopped off Pixie’s lap and wandered towards the door.

“Woofwoof,” he said to Josh.

“Woofwoof,” replied Josh in return.

Pixie snatched him up.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” Josh said, as he came and sat next to her.

“She doesn’t,” Nisha said coldly. “That dog’s going.”

She forced herself to smile at Vik. “Tea? Coffee? No Tilo?”

Having gauged the situation, Vik decided that it was better he sat. The puppy cast its soulful eyes on him. “I wouldn’t mind some tea,” he said, “But only if it’s no trouble. Tilo is working late today. We were going to Brubeck and thought we’d take Pixie along if that’s okay.”

“Tea is no trouble,” Nisha replied and made her way to the kitchen.

“What’s his name?” Josh whispered, conspiratorially.

“Scone,” Pixie whispered back.

“What?” Josh narrowed his eyes exactly like his father.

“S-C-O-N-E,” spelt out Pixie, now no longer whispering, “It’s pronounced ‘scon’, like ‘don’, not ‘scone’ like ‘cone’.”

Josh digested this.

Meanwhile, Scone Das Biswas had laid his little puppy head on Josh’s knee. Despite his dislike for Pixie gathering up again, into a pulsating ball of annoyance, Josh couldn’t help but fall a little in love with the polka-dotted creature, who wasn’t a patch on his birds of course, but was, nonetheless, a delightful thing to love. He stroked his velvety ears gently. And that Pixie did not say anything to that. Instead, she looked beseechingly at her father and his friend. Soon, fat tears rolled down her cheeks one by one.

***

It was around 11.30 that Nisha returned to their bedroom. She was freshly showered. Though she’d dried her hair, a few curls were still damp and clung to her cheeks. “Posto’s asleep,” she said and sat at the dressing table, applying cream on her cheeks.

Nisha smiled at Bappa in the mirror and a load lifted off his chest.

“So is your daughter and that Scone. He is ensconced — or should we say en-scone-d now? — in her bed. Lisa is sitting there looking at him adoringly. I hope she still pays attention to Posto!”

Nisha got under the duvet and folded her body against her husband’s.

“So your friend Vikramjit is quite the convincer. Should have gone into law!”

“He was a famous debater baba,” Bappa replied, taking her hand in his, leaning in to her. “Long day, today,” he said.

Nisha’s hair smelt all coconut-y and familiar. Bappa felt himself descend into the sort of semi-comfortable space that might just develop an edge and lead to some (long, overdue) action.

“How much do you think professors earn at that B-school?” Nisha asked him.

“Sorry, what?” Bappa said, a little surprised at this new turn.

“Vikramjit and Tilottama — how much do you think they earn?”

“Hmm,” said Bappa, considering the matter.

To be continued

Recap: At Ghosh Mansion, Ronny runs into Boro Jethu, who tests his filmmaker credentials. But even as they speak, memories of the times he spent at GM long ago come flooding back to him. Lata, meanwhile, tries to solve the blown-fuse problem before heading off to soothe Molly, whose meticulously laid plans are on the verge of unravelling.