On the veranda overlooking the garden, the drive and the gate, they sit together on the creaking sofa-swing, suspended from its iron frame, dangling their legs so that the slippers on their feet hang loose. Before them, a low round table is covered with a faded cloth, embroidered in the centre with flowers. Behind them, a pedestal fan blows warm air at the backs of their heads and necks.

The cane mats, which hang from the arches of the veranda to keep out the sun and dust, are rolled up now. Pigeons sit upon the rolls, conversing tenderly, picking at ticks, fluttering. Pigeon droppings splatter the stone tiles below and feathers float torpidly through the air.

The parents sit, rhythmically swinging, back and forth. They could be asleep, dozing — their eyes are hooded — but sometimes they speak.

'We are having fritters for tea today. Will that be enough? Or do you want sweets as well?'

'Yes, yes, yes — there must be sweets — must be sweets, too. Tell cook. Tell cook at once.'

'Uma! Uma!'

'Uma must tell cook —'

'È, Uma!'

Uma comes to the door where she stands fretting. 'Why are you shouting?'

'Go and tell cook —'

'But you told me to do up the parcel so it's ready when Justice Dutt's son comes to take it. I'm tying it up now.'

'Yes, yes, yes, make up the parcel — must be ready, must be ready when Justice Dutt's son comes. What are we sending Arun? What are we sending him?'

'Tea. Shawl —'

'Shawl? Shawl?'

'Yes, the shawl Mama bought —'

'Mama bought? Mama bought?'

Uma twists her shoulders in impatience. 'That brown shawl Mama bought in Kashmir Emporium for Arun, Papa.'

'Brown shawl from Kashmir Emporium?'

'Yes, Papa, yes. In case Arun is cold in America. Let me go and finish packing it now or it won't be ready when Justice Dutt's son comes for it. Then we'll have to send it by post.'

'Post? Post? No, no, no. Very costly, too costly. No point in that if Justice Dutt's son is going to America. Get the parcel ready for him to take. Get it ready, Uma.'

'First go and tell cook, Uma. Tell cook fritters will not be enough. Papa wants sweets.'

'Sweets also?'

'Yes, must be sweets. Then come back and take dictation. Take down a letter for Arun. Justice Dutt's son can take it with him. When is he leaving for America?'

'Now you want me to write a letter? When I am busy packing a parcel for Arun?'

'Oh, oh, oh, parcel for Arun. Yes, yes, make up the parcel. Must be ready. Ready for Justice Dutt's son.'

Uma flounces off, her grey hair frazzled, her myopic eyes glaring behind her spectacles, muttering under her breath. The parents, momentarily agitated upon their swing by the sudden invasion of ideas — sweets, parcel, letter, sweets — settle back to their slow, rhythmic swinging. They look out upon the shimmering heat of the afternoon as if the tray with tea, with sweets, with fritters, will materialise and come swimming out of it — to their rescue. With increasing impatience, they swing and swing.