Abstract

The three of us sweated in the heat and swayed with the rhythms of the crowded suburban train as we talked—or rather shouted to make ourselves heard—hanging by straps in the crush as we trundled back toward Andheri West. We were two Indians, Probal Dasgupta and Prabodh Parikh, and one Britisher, myself—all around the same age, in our late thirties. It was 1985, and Probal and I had traveled down from Pune on the Deccan Express to meet Prabodh in Bombay—and it was also a chance for me to meet the incomparable M. P. Rege. The polymath and inexhaustible Probal had been a kind (but challenging) friend, and had gently but firmly introduced me—opened my eyes—to the real-life of India, including the nature, diversity ..