Today, Mr Munshi feared, she was likely to complain to him again. She was sure to say that she didn’t like her breakfast or, that had he gone to the travel agent’s earlier, they could have chosen better seats, an earlier flight, received a better deal. After forty years, he could smell her discontentment like the stale oil that hung from the air and the tattered awnings of the stores around him; that settled between the cracks in the sidewalks and the potholes on the streets and the rusted chairs that were placed outside the dhaba. Perhaps, he thought, he could hang around Mohon’s a little longer. He could tell Usha he was helping him with some accounting. But Mohon just didn’t know when to keep quiet. Twenty years on Lexington and Mr Munshi felt he had nowhere to go.