‘You’re always talking about how you don’t spend enough time with your husband. Or you’re telling me how you find it very hard to talk to him. Or that you don’t have enough sex with him—’

‘Ragini! I have never said those things and I’ve never, ever discussed my sex life with you!’ I almost scream at her.

‘Well yes, you’re right, you’ve never said exactly those words but that’s what I’ve understood from what you have told me,’ Ragini says. ‘You tell me if I’ve surmised wrongly: You say Sid is away on tours most of the time, therefore you don’t spend enough time with him. You say Sid’s not much of a talker and spends his time on the computer when home, therefore you don’t talk to him much. Since he’s neither around nor very communicative, I don’t suppose you can have much sex in that scenario now, can you?’ Ragini asks with a smug expression.

I cannot contest what she’s said because most of it is correct. I don’t know what she means by ‘much sex’ though: How much sex is ‘much sex’? I mean, I’ve just been married nine months. I’ve heard stories that some newly married couples are at it all the time, but Sid’s been busy. When he’s been around and free … we’ve had sex (or tried to).

I don’t say anything to Ragini, though. Perhaps I’ve been saying a bit too much anyway and maybe I should not be discussing my marriage so freely. Ragini doesn’t seem to think much of Sid and I don’t want that—I don’t want my best friend to dislike my husband.

‘What story are you working on?’ I ask Ragini. I hope that talking about her work will distract her from either dissecting my marriage or giving me lectures about Comma. It works.

‘I went to a government school in Govindpuri today. Teachers in that school have been beating up children …’ Ragini says, staring at the coffee stains.

Her entire body language seems to change. A minute ago she was all bluster and talk about cleavage and sex, but she seems very tired now.

‘Did you get a story?’ I ask.

Ragini suddenly laughs. A short, loud, harsh laugh.

‘Did I get a fucking story?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I met this family today—the eight-year-old girl, a class three student, was so bloody tiny. She was all skin and bones … She had a bandage around her head and her right arm in plaster. Her class teacher first threw a wooden blackboard duster at her for talking in class—it cracked her skull. Then when she bled over her homework and smudged it—he beat her so bad he broke her arm. He broke her fucking arm Polly!’ Ragini says spitting out each word.