Anima is in the habit of carrying a long, thick pack needle in her handbag to control active hands. She has gifted one each to Vaishali and Radha, with a live demonstration of how to use it. After years of practice, she herself has become a master of the art. The drill is set. If, like today, the groper is sitting on your right, you grip the needle in your left fist, point turned right. Cross your arms, the left pressed under the right. Train the point of the needle at the nearest part of the groper's anatomy—in this case Loma's flabby left arm. When the train sways pretend to lose your balance and crash into the said arm. Before the groper has the chance to enjoy the pleasure of contact, a searing pain has gone through his arm—source unknown. And before he recovers from the stab, the needle has been sheathed.

Anima follows the drill now. Loma shouts in pain. People stare at him. He stares at her. Her face is innocent. Her gaze is fixed straight ahead. Loma mutters a loud obscenity and retracts his body. At any other time, Anima might have ignored the obscenity. But today her brain is addled with the overpowering fumes of Loma. So she turns to him and says loudly so everyone can hear, ‘If you have problems with crowds, why don’t you travel in your Mercedes?’ This is the line gropers normally throw at women who dare to complain. Not only has Anima deprived him of his line, but she has flung it at him with added sting. People laugh. Loma's chagrin knows no bounds. He has allowed a mere woman to get the better of him. It's like handing over his marbles to her. Could a man be more pathetic, more laughable than this? Loma sits wordlessly beside her, his face a mess of emotions. He doesn’t know what's going on in the world. In his entire career of groping women in buses, trains, shops and temples, he has never before met one who has hidden spikes, like a porcupine.

Anima may now look out of the window in peace.

These days the city never seems to end. But when it does, you get miles and miles of flat, arid land on this route. Then a group of hills shows up, squatting on the horizon. A sprawling hill pushes up above them, its peak a narrow needle. Anima has an old relationship with this hill. A thrill travels down her spine each time she sees it. Scenes from the annual Mahalakshmi fair begin to dance before her eyes and the deep monotone of the tarpa hums in her ears.