87

Missing pages of the first book of Phalke

Dhundiraj was overtaken by sleep as he lay on the damp green grass of a park in Baroda. As his eyes closed over his lids, he caught a glimpse of Mhatre's sculpture of a horse, his legs aloft, . The clock tower watched over the fleshy young Marathi man, stretched out, almost like Ravi Varma's Shakuntala, fallen asleep, imagining the lover she was writing to.

The toy train let out steam, just like a real train, but with a smaller reach, like a row of squirrels' tails across the bottom of the sky. It made a low sound- bhooon, bhooon, as it went, chugging along the rail track laid over the palace lawns. A little prince in royal clothes was pinching his sisters arm, through her heavily embroidered blouse, in the carriage. His head held a small turban aloft, a long pearl hung over his young forhead. It was hot, both children were sweating.

Dhundiraj crossed the palace grounds and went into the market, the small rows of shops, each with a shopkeeper busy at his table. A young girl fell in step with him, looking resentfully at his full form. The more he laughed, the irises sliding on the smooth floors of those eyes, the more her stomach kicked in response, the more she felt resentful, and he laughed some more.

As they walked past the new Kala Bhavan, a flock of parrots flew out from behind its dome like a halo.