‘It has come to this,’ he groaned. ‘A hardworking postman can’t even eat paan without being reported. Tomorrow they will ask what I do at night. How can I respond to that as a married man?’

Natwarlal, who was supposed to provide Enumerator A with tea and toast in the morning and enquire about his well-being at periodic intervals, did not show up and Enumerator A had to request the paanwala for tea. The paanwala was upset by this interruption, nevertheless offered him a cup. After a while, Enumerator A began making small paper balls and aiming them at the paanwala’s copper bowls. One bowl contained lime and the other, water. He was on target thrice. The paanwala, busy meeting the urgent and uncompromising demands of the public, failed to notice. Enumerator A soon progressed to live targets. He aimed at the paanwala’s hair. The harmless projectile landed perfectly in the centre of the paanwala’s brow and slid into a dark invisible abyss down his collar. Then he aimed at the customers. One paper ball successfully lodged on a pathan’s turban. Another rolled around the turban like a roulette ball and landed in the middle of a paan under construction. No one noticed. The paanwala folded it up swiftly, working on autopilot, and offered it to a customer, the burly constable in charge of the weapons depot at the police station.

As Enumerator A was zeroing in on the gulkand, the constable was seen returning.

‘Nathu, do you know who I am?’

‘What a question! Are you making fun of me?’

‘How long have you known me?’

‘—’

‘You’re not the only paanwala in this neighbourhood, there are four others. Adulteration? In my paan, a policeman’s paan, a servant of the Queen!’

He presented a semi-masticated paper ball, much smoother than the original hand-pressed version. Enumerator A looked on, both fascinated and petrified. The salivated ball seemed smoother, rounder and heavier. If only he had had the sense to chew the paper first, he could have launched them further into the heartlands of the shop, at the four-handed Ganesha or at the more formidable eight-handed Durga, or on the mortal souls beside them. There was a photograph, it could have been a painting of the paanwala’s father, a bald man with a formidable moustache. The frame had a flower garland around it. It offered the perfect spot to accumulate a large number of paper balls, like a pile of laddoos.

‘You there! Come down here. I’ll show you how to throw paper balls into my paan.’

‘No, I know already. I’m fine here.’