Everything has been irritating me this past week. Sid and I have barely managed to speak—he’s been leaving for work early, coming home late and seems preoccupied when he’s around. He’s become a stranger to me. Dragon has been strangely subdued too—though that hasn’t prevented her from making things more inconvenient for me—like demanding breakfast in bed.

She expects everything to be laid out on a tray—glass of juice to the left, pot of tea on the right and the newspaper in the middle. I bet she’d like fresh flowers too but I draw the line at that—I am not room service. I was expecting her to complain today—I botched her fried eggs and the yolk got all runny. It wasn’t intentional, I just couldn’t stand the aroma of burning eggs—it made me want to throw up. Dragon didn’t say a word—she just wore this expression of extreme pain and torture. I bet she’s calling Mrs Mishra right this moment and telling her how I starve her or something.

I’ve also been washing dishes for the last four days. Mini hasn’t turned up since my last conversation with her on Sunday—has she had the abortion? Despite the added work for me in her absence, I can’t bring myself to be angry with Mini or to fire her. Dragon thinks I am too soft and often suggests I deduct Mini’s pay for each work day missed. However, Mini’s dignified demeanour and the happy faces of her children prevent me from saying anything harsh to her.

If all that isn’t happy news, I think I have caught some stomach infection—I vomited three times in the morning. I’ve had the most horrible gnawing in my belly since then—like a gaping hole that needs filling—but no matter what I eat, it comes straight out. I couldn’t even keep down my morning cup of tea. The result of all that puking and not eating is that right now I am very hungry and very irritable. The jolting autorickshaw, the honking and the exhaust fumes from the stalled traffic are not adding to my happy mood.

I notice the autorickshaw driver is looking at me in the rear-view mirror—he looks at me expectantly, as if he’s waiting for a response.

‘Sorry bhaiyaji, did you say something?’ I ask.

‘I must have seen some unfortunate person’s face this morning. If I spend all day like this, how am I supposed to collect sufficient fare? I think Delhi government should do something about traffic,’ he says.

While I totally empathize with him—we are stuck in a traffic jam near the Indian Institute of Technology—I don’t respond. Nothing is worse in a traffic jam than a talkative driver and this one seems ready for a chat. I’m not in the mood today.