‘If you don’t mind me asking Mrs Mishra. What’s the problem? Can I be of any help?’ Dragon asks.

She looks the picture of concern but what she really wants is gossip about Mrs Mishra; Dragon loves a good scandal. Mrs Mishra hates her daughter-in-law and is only too ready to oblige. She sighs some more.

‘It should be a time for celebration for us you know, Neha is due any day now. But that girl is so stubborn. She refused to get a sex-determination test and says she will love the child no matter what the gender. It’s not as if I was asking for anything out of the ordinary. I just wanted to know if I was getting a pota or a poti, after all if it’s her first child, it’s also my first grandchild,’ Mrs Mishra says querulously.

By now Mrs Mishra is surrounded by the other mothers-in-law who all make supportive noises at the story. Dragon pats her arm sympathetically.

Despite the bitchiness of the conversation, all the women have their hands joined in prayer and their heads bob in rhythm with the bhajans.

‘So you don’t even know the gender of your first grandchild?’ asks a horrified Mrs Krishnan.

Mrs Mishra smiles deviously.

‘Thank the Mata for family connections and dear Dr M.K. Gandhi—he’s been our family doctor ever since my son was born—he told me after I begged him a little. Of course, as a sign of my goodwill I’ve promised a donation for his new clinic,’ Mrs Mishra says.

‘So is it a boy or a girl—if you don’t want to share—if you’re superstitious, we’d understand, you know,’ Mrs Krishnan says.

‘Oh no, I’m not superstitious at all. I might have been if it was a grandson but it’s a girl. I am happy about a granddaughter but Neha—she has to spoil every joyous moment for me,’ Mrs Mishra says dolefully.

‘What happened now?’ Dragon asks.

‘You know, I was delighted that Neha chose a traditional Indian name like Lalita for the baby—’

‘Lalita—that’s such a beautiful name,’ Dragon enthuses.

Even though she doesn’t look at me, I know why she finds that name so attractive. I think it’s a rather outdated name for a little baby.

‘Yes I know Mrs Sharma but only if it was Lalita—it’s not, it’s Lolita—like in that dirty novel,’ wails Mrs Mishra.

‘What dirty novel?’ Mrs Krishnan asks, her eyes gleaming.

‘A scandalous foreign novel in which a sixty-year-old man has sex with a ten-year-old girl called Lolita,’ Mrs Mishra says. ‘She wants to name my granddaughter Lolita because they—my brainwashed son and her—fell in love while discussing that stupid book in their English class.