He turns around to look—I see he is the head constable, his name badge reads ‘Tokas’. He puts the plastic cup he was using on top of the cooler and wipes his hands down the front of his trousers.

‘Yes madamji, hello, how can I help?’ he asks me, standing rather uncomfortably close to us.

‘She is my maid,’ I say, pointing to Mini and taking a few steps back. ‘Has she been arrested?’

‘Arre not yet madam, do you see handcuffs? You must know, madam, when we arrest someone we put them in chains, hai na gudiya?’ the man says and checks Simmi out, top to toe.

I instantly dislike his condescending attitude and his leering at the girl. I step forward so that Simmi is somewhat blocked from his view. That brings me closer to him again, and he grins.

‘If she is not arrested, I would—I would like to take her home,’ I say and so hope I am saying the right thing. I should have taken tips from Ragini on dealing with Delhi police.

‘Arre no, no, no madam, not taking her home so soon. We have to interrogate her first. Ask questions to your mummy, understand gudiya?’ the constable answers and grins at Simmi.

‘Why interrogate? What has she done?’ I ask, dreading the answer. Why is Mini here?

‘Come here behenji, and tell your madam what you did,’ the constable commands Mini without even glancing towards her. He continues to leer at Simmi.

Mini walks forward and stands a few steps behind the man. She looks wary but not scared, she also looks strangely defiant.

‘I beat him up,’ Mini says softly but her eyes are steely. ‘I beat my husband with his own stick.’

‘Arre tell whole story behenji,’ the constable tells Mini.

He addresses me next. ‘She beat her husband and burst his head, madam. He is going to get eleven stitches on the back of head. She should be thankful she has not been arrested yet. What if that man had died? What kind of woman beats her husband, I ask you?’ the constable scolds Mini.

‘Mummy is a good woman,’ says Simmi. She runs and stands next to Mini, clutching her mother’s hands.

‘Arre gudiya I did not ask you to hold—’

‘Thank you Tokas, I’ll take it from here,’ says a voice from behind us.

‘Sir!’ says Tokas very formally. He stamps his left foot on the ground and stands straight. His grin has vanished.

A twenty-something man in jeans and a checked shirt—his RayBan aviators perched on top his head—walks into the station. He has an aura of authority about him.

‘Good morning,’ the man says and nods to me, ‘I am Assistant Sub-Inspector Rajesh Balhara—please have a seat—all of you.’

‘But sir they—’ Tokas starts to say.