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The afternoons are the worst, he thinks. He has got the mornings mostly sorted out. He wakes up at 5 am, drives down to the Horticultural Gardens, and goes for a run. He clocks his usual six kilometres around this old island of vegetation hemmed in by upscale high-rises and the high-walled bungalows of Alipore’s fat cats and the newly rich. Unless it is raining heavily, he never misses his morning exercise. This is what has kept him lean and fit even at 48. So he’s not about to give up that routine. Many of the walkers and joggers know him. Shankar Das’s face is a familiar one that pops up regularly in the events pages of newspapers. Some nod at him and say hello. But most look through him or avert their eyes. A few weeks ago, he noticed a group of women looking at him and whispering. Ill-mannered gaggle of behenjis, he swore under his breath, as he jogged past them. Shankar knows that there has been a change in his status as far as other people are concerned. He has gone from an object of admiration, flattery and envy to one of contempt and ridicule. This irked...

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