Chottu and I are sitting on a couple of folding chairs. Sadiq is on the floor surrounded by the tools of his drug habit: silver kitchen foil, a new one-rupee coin which he uses as a filter, a mutilated Bisleri bottle serving as a spittoon. I use wax matches to light the foil from underneath while he chases the dragon. Afterwards, he lies down. Every once in a while he gets up and goes to the toilet to puke.

Chottu is drinking. He has finished half a bottle of country liquor and is ranting about his boss. There’s too much work. He was initially hired to cook but now does a host of other jobs at the same salary: dusting, cleaning, driving, shopping for groceries, walking the dog, ironing the clothes, driving Mrs Bindra around. She hasn’t given him a raise in two years. He says he could kill her. I say I would if I were him. He tells me to watch out; he just might one of these days.

I am smoking thin joints of Stadium ganja. I’m only half listening to Chottu. The more I smoke, the more I think of Arpita. I’m fighting my memories but it’s a losing battle.

We are like hikers heading towards a common summit but from different directions. At the moment we are all trekking along on our solitary paths; very soon we’ll be united at the summit. We will exchange high fives, shake our fists, plant flags.

At around three in the afternoon I feel like eating. The ganja has made me hungry. Chottu is drunk but steady on his feet. He’s willing to join me. Sadiq is lying on the bare floor with his eyes shut. When I poke him he doesn’t budge. His clothes are so dirty I can’t make out what he’s wearing. His body is wrapped in rags. I realize I haven’t looked at him much all these months we have been together.

Chottu and I decide to go to Sagar Restaurant in C-Block market. I’m wearing a green Polo T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Chottu’s wearing a plain red shirt and dark-brown trousers. The doorman at the restaurant hesitates for a moment, then decides to let us in. He bows and says, ‘Please,’ pointing towards the windowless ground-floor section. He knows me by face: I eat here almost every other day. Chottu doesn’t cast his eyes around the other tables; he stares at the floor and follows me. We sidestep a couple of attendants who are on their knees in the narrow aisle between the tables. They have brushes and dustpans and are cleaning the floor. Not a single crumb will escape their deft hands and keen eyesight.