There were the usual hangers-on at the Siripura Hotel, together with the proprietor and one of the hotel employees. They recognized me. I knew them well. The man …. I did not ask him his name—namesare inconsequential in this business—paid money to Ratne, the owner of the hotel, and arranged for the use of a room. Sene and Podimahatthaya stood near by smoking cigarettes and talking. We went up to the room, opened the door and walked towards the bed. The walls closed in around me. It made no difference. All rooms are the same to me. The walls needed a coat of paint. The linen on the bed was no longer fresh. I laughed mirthlessly to myself. White cloths. Virginity. Age-old traditions. None of them for me. ‘Can I get some arrack?’ the man asked. ‘What I want is a bottle, not just a drink.’

‘There is no bar in the hotel. You can ask Suduputha who works here to fetch it for you. He might be willing to run out and get it for you if you give him a tip.’

The man went to the door and called out from the landing.

‘Here Suduputha, Sudu, come here a moment.’

Suduputha came up the stairs, stood at the door.

‘Mahatthaya, what do you want?’

‘A bottle of arrack. Can you get it?’

‘I’ll try. It’s late. The bars may be closed.’

He pulled out a five hundred rupee note from his wallet.

A ring, bright gold, flashed on his finger.

‘Here, take this, go and try’.

I waited for it all to begin. To end. Then begin again.

It is always like this. Then I must forget. Go home. Think of the next day. Think of the next client. The next night. I walk blindly through the street, limping with weariness past the wine bars, the liquor shops, the arrack taverns, the men lighting their cigarettes from the twisted smoking rope, the basins of boiled kadalai steaming at the entrance. I have no appetite left. Only a great thirst. Nothing can assuage it. One day it will consume me, this thirst. I burn with its fire.

We talked desultorily before Sudu came. The man had placed the bag on the table. It contained three apples. My children liked apples.

‘You have children?’ he asked matter of factly.

‘Yes.’

‘Here, take an apple for them.’

My hand closed round its smoothness. An apple was something special. Expensive too. The cheapest was ten rupees.

He told me about himself.

‘I am a mudalali in Maliban Street.’

He must have left his village a long time ago to come to the city. He had made his money here.

Was he looking out for a woman that night? Or was it a sudden whim which overtook him when he saw me?