When the car finally appears, he is not sure whether this is the one he has been waiting for. The man had said it would be black, and the car is black, but it is surprisingly grand and obscene. He has never seen such a car before, and it comes towards him like an object from another time. A scooter going in the car's direction veers to the edge of the road and stops because the lane is probably too narrow for the two of them to pass and the scooter has accepted its inferior position. As the car passes, the man tilts his scooter to his left, like a dog about to urinate. Guards from the other blocks run out into the lane to stare at the back of the car. One of them salutes. The car stops near Ousep. The guard of Block A, in his cheap military outfit, points a finger at the steering wheel and laughs in mild confusion, which looks like a type of sorrow. He has never seen a left-hand drive before, never knew such a meaningless trick was possible. Ousep throws his cigarettes away and gets into the back seat. The car smells like another country, which it is, in a way. Krishnamurthy Iyengar, in the back seat, looks smaller than Ousep had imagined. He is, as before, in an oversized shirt buttoned at the cuffs, his silver medals pinned on the third button, eight fountain pens and a tiny black torch in his shirt pocket.

'A gift from my son,' Iyengar says. 'It took one year to reach me from America. Chevrolet Cavalier, it is called.'

'I've never been inside anything like this.'

'It is the only car I have, Ousep. I didn't bring this to scare you.'

'I was surprised when you called me.'

'And you would like to know why I called you, of course,' Iyengar says, but he does not say anything else for a while. When the old man had called early this morning he had said, in between coughs, 'Don't have any expectations, I just want to meet. There is nothing more to it.'

The car leaves Balaji Lane and heads towards Arcot Road. The whole way, people stare as if the Chevrolet is at once a foe and a beautiful woman, which is the same thing in a way. 'I've been thinking of calling you the whole week,' Iyengar says. 'Then I decided that if I am ever going to meet you, now is the time. Now as in today, this morning. Because I am going to the airport.'

The old man sinks into a comfortable silence once again, so Ousep says, 'I don't see the connection.'

'I am going to America,' Iyengar says. 'I am giving a talk at Johns Hopkins. Then I am going to spend some time with my son and his family. Then my daughter and her family. Because I am a jobless old man.'

'So, you didn't want to wait. Is that what you're trying to say?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know if you could have waited?'

'What I want to say is that I want to talk to you in the car, when I am on the way to the airport. Yes, that's what I want to say. Because that way I can say what I wish to say and just get rid of you. You may have questions and more questions, but I don't have the answers. I want to say what I have to say, drop you somewhere on the way, and go away.'

'And what is it that you want to say?'

Iyengar runs his fingers through his silver hair, and appears to gather his thoughts, though he has surely had a lot of time to do that.

'Unni told me something one day,' Iyengar says. 'He told me that in the greatest stories of the world there are always opposites there is the superhero and the supervillain, the good and the evil, the strong and weak. He asked me if the Corpse Syndrome had an opposite condition. Are there people in this world who feel very alive, who feel every moment of their days as if life inside them is the greatest force in the universe. People who are hopelessly happy. I told him that for some strange reason neuropsychiatry does not deal with such conditions it deals with conditions that need a cure. The anti-corpse would not need a cure. The anti-corpse is the aspiration of mankind. And Unni said, "I am the anti-corpse."'

'Doctor, why would a person who is so happy choose to die?'

'It is possible,' Iyengar says slowly, with unfathomable caution, 'it is possible that Unni Chacko was not what he thought he was.'

Ousep feels an enormous weight on his chest, as if a powerful adolescent boy is holding him in a fierce embrace. 'Do you believe that, Doctor?'

'Or, Unni was everything he thought he was, and we do not understand the happiness of other people. Maybe happiness has nothing to do with life, maybe we are overestimating the lure of life.'

'So what are you trying to say, Doctor?'

'Just this, what I told you. That's all I wanted to say.'

'But what do you make of it?'

'See, that is the problem, Ousep. My opinion is not important. It would be unfair, too. I have not formally studied him.'

'Be unfair. Tell me.'

Iyengar considers his own wrinkled fingers, then his tired palms. He says, 'Many times in my career I have wondered if some of my patients are in my room only because they have seen beyond what the normal brain can see. What I am trying to say, very inarticulately, is this. What if Unni was a person who could see more than others? What if he saw the world in a form that he could not explain?'

'What if he didn't, Doctor? What if he was just deluded?'

'That was what Unni was trying to find out, Ousep. Can't you see?'

'So why did he have to die?'

'I don't know, Ousep. I cannot answer that question.'

They are caught in the morning traffic on Arcot Road, and the car has not moved in several minutes. Urchins who have lost different body parts are banging at the car windows. They are not as miserable as people imagine, according to a boy who once claimed he was unbearably happy and then decided to jump off a building.

'So you've said what you wanted to say, Doctor?'

'I have,' Iyengar says. 'Ousep, before you go, I want to know if you have found the corpse.'

'No.'

'That boy, Somen Pillai, you could not meet him?'

'No. I don't know where he is. Every time I go to his house, his parents tell me he is not at home. I go at odd hours but I have been unable to meet him or even see him. But one of the maids on the lane said something odd. I don't know what to make of it.'

'What did she say?'

'She said that she has heard from someone who has heard from someone else and so on that Somen has shut himself up in a room for over two years. It doesn't make any sense to me.'

'It makes complete sense, Ousep. A corpse is most likely to do just that.'

'Are you saying that the boy has been inside the house all this while?'

'Much longer than that even.'

'And his parents have been locking the door and leaving him inside?'

'Possible.'

'Are you sure about this, Doctor?'

'Go and get your corpse, Ousep. Do what you have to do. I've lost all interest in mine, but go, Ousep, go and find your corpse.'

IT IS NOON, AND the people who live on the narrow mud lane take in the sight the town alcoholic and a dwarf key-maker, who is holding three large metal rings filled with hundreds of keys, are going somewhere. To open a door, perhaps.

As Ousep had expected the door is locked. Somen's parents are away at work. The lock looks particularly large in the small hand of the midget key-maker, who is a delicate and dignified man. He makes a sound through his nose and dismisses it as an easy job. He looks up and laughs at a joke he is about to crack. 'What if this is not your house?' He shoves various keys inside.

A frail old man, in a blinding white shirt, appears at the gate. He stands there with his hands joined behind his back, and looks. Within minutes four more old men and two old women appear behind the gate. They stand still, asymmetrically, as if they are in an abstract dance, and they look at Ousep without affection. The key-maker is kneeling on the doormat, scratching the teeth of several keys with an iron rod and inserting them into the lock. On occasion he turns to the small gathering of curious retired people. The crowd slowly grows, and now the housewives too have joined the assembly. The dwarf is increasingly confused and his glances are longer and more frequent. He looks at Ousep with mild suspicion but decides not to understand the situation.

Ousep sees the furious grey scooter at a distance, racing down the lane carrying Somen's parents. As it approaches, Ousep can see that the man is in a murderous rage. When he stops the scooter by the side of the lane, he just leaves the handlebar and charges at his house. The scooter falls with Mrs Pillai still on the pillion. The crowd moves towards her but Somen's father is unaffected. He starts kicking the key-maker, who is now delirious as he fends off the kicks with carefully observed movements of his hands. He points to Ousep and screams, 'I thought it was this man's house.' He manages to run away at a full sprint, carrying his three metal rings. He dashes across the lane without slowing down or even looking back. In fact, he gains speed as he reaches the end of the lane.

Pillai thrusts a finger at Ousep. 'Don't push me, Ousep, this has to end right now. You are losing your mind.'

'Somen Pillai is inside,' Ousep says.

'That's not true.'

'Then all you have to do is show me in and I will believe you.'

'This is my home, Ousep, I decide who will enter this place.'

'Take me to Somen.'

Somen's mother goes into the house crying; she is followed by her man, and they bang the door shut. Ousep looks at the small angry crowd and says, 'Think about it, when was the last time you saw the boy? Where is that boy? What happened to that boy?'

Ousep begins to come here every night, fully drunk. He rings the bell several times but he knows the door will not open. He stands outside the gate and screams the boy's name. He walks up and down the lane, screaming, 'Somen Pillai, speak to me, speak to the father of Unni Chacko.' He is at the gate in the mornings, sober and elegant. He is there when the maid arrives, he is there when she leaves. He stands smoking his cigarettes as Somen's parents appear in office clothes and secure the door with two padlocks. He stands and watches their sullen departure on the old grey scooter. He does this every night and day. He won't stop, this is his final stand.

Thoma's mother says, 'Your father has gone crazy.' Ousep has stopped going to work. He wakes up at dawn these days and goes somewhere, he returns and sits till noon in his room with Unni's cartoons and a magnifying glass, which he runs over the comics. Some days he spreads out all the pages of Unni's comics and cartoons on the floor, climbs on the bed and tries to get a top-angle view. Then he leaves home again. When he returns at night he is as drunk as ever, but he does not stop at giving a speech from the gate. He has started going to some of the homes in Block A, he asks to speak to the boys inside. He wants to know everything everybody knows about Unni. Last week he banged on Mythili's door and fought with her father, who threatened to call the police. He has started wandering around the city at night and waking Unni's friends from sleep. People have started slapping him around. That's what Mariamma says. Some nights Ousep comes home with bruises. Thoma and his mother sit on his bed and clean his wounds, which is strangely the most peaceful moment in Thoma's life. The sight of his father, alive, safe at home, sleeping like a child, and Thoma taking care of him. Something has happened to Thoma, too. He feels stronger. After his betrayal of Unni he is repulsed by the idea of pettiness and fear. He does not ask himself any more whether he will make it across the giant span of life. He knows he will. He sees clearly that he does not have the option of being ordinary.

Thoma has heard that his father has become obsessed with Somen Pillai. At the end of all his wanderings in the night, he goes to Somen's house and creates trouble. Mariamma gets news from the women who live on that lane. Somen's mother herself has come and wept and begged to be saved. Thoma hears this from his teachers, too, who take him aside and ask him what is happening. But Thoma walks with his head held high, he is tired of being ashamed. If this is his life, so be it.

But Mother has had enough. She tells Ousep one morning, 'Stop this or I will kill you one of these days.' He says, peacefully, 'Get me some coffee.'

She has started pouring water on him every morning. That is how he wakes up these days. Right now, she is walking purposefully into Father's room with a bucket. Thoma hears his father's sad yelp, sees his mother sprint towards the door, then his father's tired, drenched appearance. But over time, Ousep is not so surprised any more. Thoma then understands what his mother had meant by the Law of Diminishing Returns. In fact, after Mariamma empties the buckets on him, Ousep does not even yelp any more. It is as if he has employed her to wake him up. He walks briskly to the bathroom and takes his bath. And she has stopped sprinting away after the punishment. She hovers around the house wondering what more she can do to control him.

One night she takes the scissors and slices Ousep's shirt. She cuts its sleeves off and puts it on a hanger in the bedroom for him to see in the morning. But Father is not affected, he does not say anything, though he does hold his limbless shirt in his hand and stares at it for a long time, probably wondering what he should do. By the end of the week she has sliced all his shirts. So, in the mornings now, Ousep sits on the bed and sews his shirts with a thread and needle. She starts slicing his trousers, too, but Ousep has learnt how to sew. He looks like a beggar in rags these days.

Then one morning, as Mariamma is about to empty a bucket of water on him, the phone rings. Ousep wakes up and sees his wife standing with a bucket of water. 'Can you do that after I take the call?' he says. She steps back and lets him pick up the phone.

'Hello,' Ousep says.

The voice on the other end is strong and serene. 'Ousep Chacko?'

'Yes,' he says, sitting up.

'My name is Somen Pillai. Come to my home at six in the evening.'

OUSEP WALKS AS IF it is morning, with short brisk steps, his little finger sticking out, hair combed back. Ousep Chacko, finally respectable at dusk. The longest day of his life has almost passed in an unbearable wait and the humiliation of sewing his own trousers. As the stout house at the end of the lane approaches, he accepts that he has not walked so steadily in the twilight in many years. The front door opens and Mr Pillai, who is wearing a shirt this evening, stands in the doorway to receive him with a compassionate hand waiting in mid-air to grab the shoulder of his guest. Ousep goes beyond the doormat for the first time and takes in the small foyer, where two adolescent boys, in another time, used to play chess for many hours and talk about the nature of reality, and on occasion toy with the mind of a fool who had come to them seeking easy answers to borrowed questions.

The hall is dim, its walls sky blue, and there is the smell of soap.

The room has two cushioned chairs and a thin sofa arranged around a low table, a colour TV in a corner, and a dining table, which blocks half the doorway to the kitchen. Pillai leads him to the sofa and sits by his side, very close. In the blue wall that faces Ousep, there are two shut doors. Behind one of them Somen Pillai waits.

The boy's father is not comfortable, his movements are quick and his eyes restless. Mrs Pillai steps out of the kitchen holding a serving spoon; she smiles without warmth and goes back in.

'My boy is inside,' the man says, pointing to a shut door. 'He has been in that room for more than two years. For more than two years, Ousep. He never leaves the room. He does not speak. Not a word, even to himself. Actually, it is good, isn't it, that he does not speak to himself? We send food inside once a day. We are glad that he at least eats. That makes him shit like any of us, which is a good thing. There is a bathroom inside, so he does not have to step out. He bathes. We are grateful for that too. Ousep, do you know why he is this way?'

'No, Pillai, I don't.'

'We don't know what has happened to him,' Pillai says. 'One of these days a yellow halo is going to appear behind the idiot's head. Wouldn't that be nice? Two years ago he told us that he wanted to stop going to college. I had sold some land in Kerala and got him a seat in an engineering college, but he decided not to take it up. He said he wanted to sit in the room and do nothing. I fought, I begged, but I soon realized that I would lose my only son if I insisted. I told him that if he wanted to do nothing he was free to roam around the entire house, watch TV and do absolutely nothing. At least I could then tell myself my son had retired early. But no, he wanted to be contained in that room. He told us that if we tried to talk to him, if we bothered him in any way, he would leave the house for ever. So we let him be. We have made our peace, Ousep. This morning, for the first time in two years, he stepped out. His mother and I were sitting where we are sitting right now, and what do we see. We see our son come out of his room. The light went on in our eyes, Ousep, just for a moment. He goes straight to the phone and calls you. For the first time in over two years we heard his voice. Isn't that nice? We must thank you, Ousep. Your trick has worked. You made such a scene every night, the boy has decided to deal with you and be done with it.'

Pillai's body begins to shake, he covers his face with his fat fingers and cries. 'What is it, Ousep? What has happened to our son? Ask him to show one flaw in me, one flaw. I fed him, I loved him, I held him by his hand and took him places, I played with him. I gave him everything. And he decides to shut himself in a room for ever. You talk to him. Ask him anything you want. I know you won't understand what he says. You will go away very confused. Trust me. We tried talking to him when it all began. But after today, please don't come here again.'

'Can I go in?' Ousep says.

Pillai points to the door. 'Don't knock. Just go in.'

As Ousep walks to the door, his breathing becomes laboured, and for a moment he feels giddy. He pushes the door open and sees a young man in a plain white shirt and brown trousers sitting behind a wooden desk and smiling at him. He is much thinner than he was three years ago, which is not surprising. He has a thick full beard, as Ousep had expected. The boy's hair is long, but not as long as Ousep had imagined. He has large teasing eyes, piercing eyes, but they still have some mirth in them.

'Shut the door and latch it,' the boy says. His voice is not deep but it is strong and clear.

Ousep does as he is told, and when the boy points to the vacant chair across the desk, he sits. Finally, Somen Pillai. He does not look mad at all. In fact, this one is going to be tough.

'Are you afraid?' the boy says.

'Why would I be afraid?'

'Sitting alone with me in this room. Are you afraid?'

'No.'

'I will call you Ousep,' the boy says.

'That's a remarkable coincidence. My name is, in fact, Ousep.'

Somen laughs, like anybody else. 'I can call you uncle or sir, or things like that, if you want me to be respectful, but I would prefer to call you Ousep. As you said, that's your name.'

'Call me Ousep.'

'Ousep, you see this window? I have been watching you every time you've come to the gate. I have seen you in the mornings, I have seen you at night. You are more literary in the nights, I noticed.'

'I am sorry for all that I did but I had to meet you.'

'I can see you are not drunk today.'

'You are right.'

'I have not spoken in over two years. I am surprised I am even able to speak. But I think my speech may sound a bit strange.'

'Why haven't you spoken for two years, Somen?'

'You will figure that out as we go. But before we begin I have something important to tell you. You've destroyed my way of life, Ousep. You are a persistent man who has no shame. I thought I should let you ask me everything you want to ask so that we are done with it and never meet again.'

'I can accept that, Somen.'

'It is natural that you would attach a certain importance to the fact that I have refused to meet you for so long. But the truth is, as you will see, I have very simple things to say. The only reason I did not meet you was that I did not feel like meeting you. That's all there is to it.'

'That's reasonable.'

'There is something else you must know,' Somen says. 'In the time that follows you will ask me questions. I will answer them. We will talk. We will have what is called a conversation. I will tell you everything I know. You can ask me anything you want. But at the end of it all you will not know why Unni Chacko killed himself. You will fail in your mission. Because the fact is that I do not know why Unni did what he did.'

'I can accept that.'