Dadu knew he was close—closer than he had ever been—to his own vanishing from earth. It was a matter of time. But perhaps he would live in Mishti’s recollections of the life she had had as a child in this city, a place glorious and abundant in every corner, even in this time of peculiar crisis. He would have contributed to making these years of Mishti’s life a little beautiful. That would be his mode of immortality.
