'. . . Delaunay's colours, and Kandinsky, Kandinsky . . . even the name dances, the middle syllable hurdles over the k into the perfect ending of a y. The music of his painting. He talks of a clash, of a collision; and that clash gives birth to a mass of melodies, swirling harmonies and rich chords.

'Look Nandini - this small copy I have done of his Painting with three splashes. A hurried and flawed attempt I am sure, but I wanted to have a reminder of the music of his painting. Those bright independent modern melodies darting into the centre of the painting - see them there? And see Nandini, the tiny blue oval here - that is the size of my fist here, maybe bigger,' he said, holding his fist up level with her eyes and adjusting it to a perfect distance for focus. 'It hums. . .

'A wonderful journey. But now, here, back in Calcutta, feeling the life pulse of Bengal, smelling it, I must explore colour more fully. Colour here, at this moment. I know our colours from the past. The exquisite jade green in some of the Mughal miniatures, for instance, or the blue green in the Ajanta frescoes. I know the green of our rice fields now, the lotus, the parakeet. Maybe that explains, Nandini, why I see some colours differently. My eyes have been reared on different tones. And different tones have different associations. And so on. You understand my meaning?' And after a short pause, he added 'I will start tomorrow.'