‘Oh there’s nothing wrong with ideals,’ Ragini says. ‘Just that yours are fucking fictional. You think all journalists are in the media for the love of truth. You actually believe everything you read. You live in some sort of fantasy, Polly. A filmi world of Rajshri pictures or something where everything is rosy and you marry a man you don’t know and he falls in love with you in two days. Get real for fuck’s sake,’ Ragini says and stubs her cigarette. She immediately lights another.

‘You believed in ideals, too, Ragini—in college—I used to admire you—our shared ideals was one of the reasons we became friends—’

‘There were no “shared ideals”—I was your friend because people like you—spineless that you are—always need people like me to look after them,’ Ragini says.

‘You didn’t look after me!’ I retort. ‘I—I was your friend because … I chose you as much as you chose me, Ragini,’ I say.

‘Bullshit! You didn’t choose me, you hardly had a choice. You were an insecure, small-town girl from nowhere who came to big, bad Delhi without a fucking clue. You chose me—my foot! I took you under my wing and I had a goddamn hard time making you see some things. You didn’t even have any other friends—’

‘—because you fought with me if I spoke to other people! You didn’t want to mix with anyone else, Ragini—you were always running off to—’

‘Running off to? I was working at building a career from the first year of college when everyone else was spending time eating ice-creams. I was collecting bylines and—’

‘—missing classes! I took notes for you Ragini, I never begrudged you your bylines—’

‘Because you couldn’t have managed any anyway,’ Ragini says with malicious pleasure.

I refuse to believe her. This is a totally skewed version of how things were at college. This is not how I remember it.

‘That’s not true,’ I tell her. ‘I did that internship with that magazine—’

‘It was a stupid wedding magazine and they wanted you to walk around Karol Bagh—from shop to fucking shop collecting visiting cards—’

‘They were making a compilation of wedding stores in Karol Bagh!’ I respond.

‘That’s all they thought you were good for and—’

The Bin door opens and a smiling Mita pokes her head out. Her smile quickly vanishes when she notices the expressions on our faces. Mita has horrible timing—she always interrupts when Ragini and I are talking—though I’m glad for the interruption today.

‘Hi, hi, Ragini, Polly. Sorry to disturb you two but Comma is asking for Polly,’ Mita says and dashes back inside without waiting for an answer.

I realize that I haven’t been inside office since I’ve arrived—so much for being on time. I don’t wait for Ragini—enough’s been said—and walk towards the Bin door.