We briefed this as Kalighat's old quarrel between privilege and piety dragged to a modern pujo pandal: the VIP-darshan queue-jumper. He stands easy at the left in a crisp white kurta, dark glasses on indoors, a gold chain at his throat and a hand in his pocket, holding up a small laminated pass like a magic key — every inch the man for whom no line applies. Opposite him a devotee sweats and stoops, palms pressed together in plea, a bead of perspiration drawn at his temple, the ordinary worshipper who has waited since dawn. We composed them as a facing-pair so the pass card sits at the dead centre of the picture, the small object that splits the two men, and let the VIP's red-striped gamcha and gold chain carry the only ornament against the devotee's plain indigo. No queue sign, no banner, no logo: the satire is the card, the dark glasses and the folded hands.