At the age of eighty, Mr Pinto was forgetful, the first thing that he forgot to bring with him was his nagging, old wife from the village. Twenty years had passed as fleetingly as the cool summer breeze since he had last seen her, but oh, where was his little carton of sweet rasgullas that he had saved to eat after lunch? He had to have it, it was his ritual, a Bengali sweet after lunch. It filled him with sweetness and massaged a balm on his anger when that rascal deftly defeated him in the card game.

"Where are my rasgullas?" he demanded, his weathered hands gripping the young girl's arm, coarser and stronger than she had anticipated. The girl's eyebrows furrowed as she narrowed her eyes at him, sharp and suspicious. He always forgot to dispose his cigarettes or take a bath, but he never forgot to eat, she judged wryly.

"I don't know sir," she said and with her free hand, she took the plate of food and proffered it to him.

"I want my rasgullas!" he roared, swatting away the plate and the rice flew everywhere, the yellow dal raining on them. The plate dropped and rattled on the floor for a good minute like a cymbal after being struck. Some of the other residents peered at them from a distance, curious, but cautious. He let go of her arm, turning to the others. "Who dared to steal my rasgullas? Who was it? Come forward and be a man!"

Old bones collided in fear as everyone scattered at his yells and he stormed out, leaving the girl to clean the aftermath of the catastrophe. She had decided to volunteer in this old age home out of the kindness of her heart, to help the neglected and unwanted of the society. But Mr Pinto strode everywhere like he owned the place, everything was his to take and he made others feel shunned, including herself. Why couldn't he just be old?

There were clattering and banging noises prompting from different places, the raging storm was flipping the world upside down for a sweet. She had heard rumours about him, how he had set fire to his house at the village after the death of his wife some twenty years ago and made this dilapidating building in the city, his home. Other than that, she didn't know anything of his past, it seemed like he had forgotten about that too. What he didn't forget was his sweet and his card games with Mr D'mello, his best friend since twenty years.

Childlike happiness glossed their evenings together as both the old men laughed heartily over card games, swelling the dreary house with warmth and vigour matching that of youth. Sometimes, their scintillating happiness caused the old lady who would mourn over her dead son (lost to riots some twenty years ago) by running to the street half-naked and beating her chest in agony, to stop, throw a cotton towel over herself and loom inquisitively over the two men's shoulders.

Even during the uncertain times of Mr D'mello's forthcoming heart surgery, they joked and laughed, one with his hand clutching his chest. Today, Mr D'mello had led an agitated Mr Pinto to the wicker table in the balcony, making him sit opposite to him. Cards were spread out like a paper fan across the table.

When Mr D'mello sat down with an audible huff, Mr Pinto remarked, "The reason you have a weak heart is because of how many times you got dumped by women. How many were they? Seventeen . . . Eighteen . . ."

"You will never forget such things," Mr D'mello said smilingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know why your heart is strong and pumping with so much blood?"

He grumbled, "I don't want to know."

"Because of how much blood you drain from others," he said, shuffling the cards. "Why did you create that ruckus today? What for?"

"Some bastard stole my ragullas that I had kept in the fridge!"

"Those rasgullas were hard and nasty like Mr George's testicles," he retorted. Mr George was another resident who had been rumoured to suffer from testicular cancer because of the sheer size of them that one could see through his gauzy, white pyjamas. That lewd comment on his testicles sent Mr Pinto reeling with laughter, tipping the chair back and dissipating all his tension. It made him forget to suspect his playmate as to how he knew the texture of the rasgullas . . .

The next day, Mr Pinto found fresh rasgullas in the fridge, soft as a baby's cheeks. Mr D'mello had brought them for him, after having stolen them the previous day. After eating his sweet, he began searching for him to play a game of cards, resolute to defeat him today. The big news came to him quickly and shockingly in a little moment just like when he had heard of his wife's death in the riots from the villagers.

"He passed away," the girl said in a quivering voice. Others peered at them from a distance, curious, but cautious. This time, he didn't seize her arm, instead, he staggered back and broke out laughing.

Why was he hysterical? Weren't old people accustomed to death? Why couldn't he be just an old man?

"He's joking. That rascal's joking!" He stormed out, intent on not disturbing his ritual of a sweet followed by a game.  Everyone scattered like birds at the sound of a hunter's gunshot. He had to have his game with Mr D'mello, he had to win at least once. "He has tricks up his sleeve, that's how he wins every match. He's clever, that old trickster! Where is he? Who stole him from me? Where the hell is he? Who dared to steal him from me?! Come forward and be a man!"

Death was not manly enough to step forward.

That evening, he leaned against the balustrade in the balcony of the empty building, smoking a cigarette. The puffs of smoke drifted over Mr D'mello body that was being carried downstairs, shrouded in white and adorned in orange flowers. The half-naked woman tore through the throng of people and began beating her chest wildly, her drooping breasts swaying like coconuts hanging from the tall trees.

Whether Mr Pinto had forgotten to smash the burning cigarette or not, it didn't matter anymore as the building was set ablaze by him, the fire as fierce and bright as the fire that engulfed Mr D'mello's body on the funeral pyre. And out of the ashes rose Death, masked by the thick cloud of smoke, a tall, dark and brooding figure. Everyone watched Him from a distance, curious, but cautious. A scream escaped the girl's lips as she pulled the bodies from the wreckage, left to clean the aftermath of the catastrophe like always.