Fiction: A young poet shares all his secrets with a tree. Soon his life will be transformed by love

“Have you read Marcel Proust?”

The silence that greets this question, if divided by two, would be just enough to sublet a small room by the highway at night. Low on rent, the food not too reliable and it usually takes time to fall asleep there.

“I understand. André Gide? Have you?”

The silence that answers this one, with just a little more added to it, would get you an apple orchard on a hilltop where desolate workers turn up once a week, the wind on the rest of the days, in silence.

“Not even that? Alright. James Joyce?”

This silence is enough to stir envy in a sturdy vase or neatly folded washed curtains in a house that’s been locked for ages, a house where no mail arrives any more.

“Goodness! You haven’t read Kafka either, have you?”

Now the silence will break, like softly crushed peanut shells.

“Yes, I have. Just The Metamorphosis.”

Pushkar’s reply is soft. There are at least eight other people in the longish room, all staring at him– the new entrant, small, slim, dishevelled hair and unkempt beard, the boy named Pushkar. Dressed in a kurta and a pair of faded jeans teamed with an equally raggedy jhola bag, the boy looks exceptionally innocent and out of sorts, like an unused boat...

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