They walked quietly for a while, occupied with home thoughts. Omprakash broke the silence by pointing out a watermelon-sherbet stand. “Wouldn’t that be nice, on such a hot day.”

The vendor stirred his ladle in the tub, tinkling chunks of ice afloat in a sea of dark red. “Let’s have some,” said Maneck. “It looks delicious.”

“Not for us,” said Ishvar quickly. “We had a big breakfast this morning,” and Omprakash erased the longing from his face.

“Okay,” said Maneck doubtfully, ordering one large glass. He studied the tailors who stood with eyes averted, not looking at the tempting tub or his frosted glass. He saw their tired faces, how poor their clothes were, the worn-out chappals.

He drank half and said, “I’m full. You want it?”

They shook their heads.

“It will go to waste.”

“Okay, yaar, in that case,” said Omprakash, and took the sherbet. He gulped some, then passed it to his uncle.

Ishvar drained the glass and returned it to the vendor. “That was so tasty,” he said, beaming with pleasure. “It was very kind of you to share it with us, we really enjoyed it, thank you.” His nephew gave him a disapproving look to tone it down.

How much gratitude for a little sherbet, thought Maneck, how starved they seemed for ordinary kindness.

The verandah door had a brass nameplate: Mr. amp; Mrs. Rustom K. Dalai, the letters enriched by years of verdigris. Dina Dalai answered their ring and accepted the scrap of crumpled paper, recognizing her own handwriting.

“You are tailors?”

“Hahnji,” said Ishvar, nodding vigorously. All three entered the verandah at her invitation and stood awkwardly.

The verandah, which used to be an open gallery, had been converted into an extra room when Dina Dalai’s late husband was still a child — his parents had decided it would be a playroom to supplement the tiny flat. The portico was bricked and fitted with an iron-grilled window.