The man comes in violent spurts. Ravi feels like he just finished an hour-long tumble dry cycle, like a jet plane whizzed past inches from his nose.

He feels the man rubbing semen all over him, massaging his arse with the fresh grease, the thick wet fingers groping for his arsehole. And then, the final intimate touches—a dab of semen on each of his earlobes, and his nose. They lie like that for hours—Ravi face down on the bed, the man on top of him, not saying anything. The man’s arms lie on either side of his neck, rough and inert, like a pair of alligators. If Ravi turns his head a little he can see the man’s wrist. It’s hairy, muscular, powerful. It’s the kind of wrist that fires machine guns and steers trucks with hydraulic brakes. It’s the kind of wrist, Ravi tells himself, that commits no double faults. It’s the kind of wrist which, in case the owner ever found himself in a crowded, lurching bus in Bangalore, would wrap itself around the handlebar like a snake and prevent him from falling on the horny hostel girl standing to his left.

He wakes up with the sun on his face. The orange of last night has been replaced with a different kind—less dense, more diffused.

He sits on the pot and drops his load. He sits with his elbows on his thighs. When he’s finished he raises the seat, clambers onto the porcelain bowl and sits on it on his haunches. He washes himself listlessly. While getting off, his right toe loses its hold on the edge and he slips and falls on his right shoulder.

He doesn’t bathe or brush his teeth. He wets his hair, combs it with his fingers. He changes into a blue, collared T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.

His dormitory is in Astley Hall. He decides to walk towards the clock tower. He hopes he does not bump into his mother on the way. The streets are full of people but Ravi finds it difficult to focus. He walks past a music store, a petrol station, a small Benetton’s, two off-licences, and spare parts shops and jewellery stores, sitting cheek by jowl. The watch at the clock tower has the wrong time. He stands at the crossroads and thinks of the next step. Should he turn left and walk towards Imamullah Building? Should he turn right and go towards Paltan Bazaar or even a little further towards Suicide Alley, past the twin cinema halls? To buy time he crosses the road and stands next to the multicoloured water fountain opposite the head post office.