Padma can hear it: theres nothing like a countdown for building suspense. I watched my dung flower at work today, stirring vats like a whirlwind, as if that would make the time go faster. (And perhaps it did; time, in my experience, has been as variable and inconstant as Bombays electric power supply. Just telephone the speaking clock if you dont believe me tied to electricity, its usually a few hours wrong. Unless were the ones who are wrong… no people whose word for yesterday is the same as their word for tomorrow can be said to have a firm grip on the time.)

But today, Padma heard Mountbattens ticktock… English made, it beats with relentless accuracy. And now the factory is empty; fumes linger, but the vats are still; and Ive kept my word. Dressed up to the nines, I greet Padma as she rushes to my desk, flounces down on the floor beside me, commands: Begin. I give a little satisfied smile; feel the children of midnight queueing up in my head, pushing and jostling like Koli fishwives; I tell them to wait, it wont be long now; I clear my throat, give my pen a little shake; and start.

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