The Revolutionary did not look like a ‘Revolutionary’. Not equipped with Che Guevara’s patched beard. Fidel Castro’s lion’s eyes. Brother was shaped like a cricket player. Very slim. Very strong. Brother spoke in Aristotelian paragraphs, his voice calm, even at his crescendo. How did he manage this, this balance of sense and sensibility? This Walter Rodney. This ‘Wally Brother’. This Stargazer Fellow. The Revolutionary did not wear bell bottoms. He wore economics professor’s spring semester khakis, John-the-Baptist sandals, and a white shirt jersey stained under the armpits. His overly serious face was framed by horn rimmed glasses. His Afro was substantial enough to make his point, yet too tame for 1978. Style, his Afro suggested, was secondary to something else. But what? Tulsi turned to Anand, his lifelong best friend, and wanted to whisper in his ears that they both – the Sweetboy and the Revolutionary – shared the same two values, the latter inevitably confessing, but to on the contrary. Anand was listening too hard; listening was a performance. Tulsi could tell. Here’s love: knowing when your friend is getting dressed and growing frustrated by everyone pretending. The unwanted carnival. Quarter to nine. Tulsi tapped his toes. Did his thumb. He begged Lord Ganesha to bring this meeting – and all its causes – to a fast, Aristotelian name.