We make our way to the first floor where a group of Punjabi ladies is playing Bingo: ‘Two-saven, twanty-saven, one-zero, Downing Street . . .’ Their restless children sit at another table and order ice-cream shakes and kulfis. Some of the women cast suspicious glances at us when we enter.

We sit down at a corner table and place orders for Mysore masala dosas. Chottu leans back and looks around in disgust as if we are sitting amongst mounds of smelly garbage.

After the late lunch, Chottu and I stroll around for a while: Chottu checking out women’s feet, I staring vacantly at passersby. Fortunately, everyone comes to Def Col with their maids in tow so the two of us together don’t attract much attention.

We find a cycle rickshaw near Kent’s Fast Food. We take him to the Flyover Market. We need more booze and cigarettes. Chottu is grumpy and disgruntled. He says he can see this life of slavery is not going to go anywhere. He wants money. His present job is not going to earn him that. ‘Seven days of nonstop work,’ he complains ‘and at the end of the month a fuckall salary. She gives me food and shelter. That’s supposed to be enough. Whatever little I have left I send home. I never had any money to spend on myself. I’ll never have that.’ He wanted a motor scooter but Mrs Bindra refused. Chottu claims it would have made the shopping quicker and easier. ‘But no. She insists I do everything on my bicycle. This is no place for bicycles, brother. I am tired of cars honking me out of their way.’

At the Flyover Market I take him to Nirula’s for a drink of water. His lips are chapped and dry. He looks dehydrated. He is on his third glass when I notice one of the red-uniformed employees walking towards us. I asked Chottu to hurry. We leave before he can reach us.

We buy whisky from the off-license under the dingy Flyover Market. The sound of the traffic is immediate and loud. Invisible trucks and buses roll past above our heads. We are the small fish scurrying about the ocean floor while the big fish hunt closer to the surface. I buy cigarettes from a man sitting opposite Central Bank. We walk home in silence. Chottu has stopped complaining for the time being. While walking over the small bridge across the nala, I see cows grazing on the grass down below. They look sluggish and bored.

When we get back, Sadiq is awake. He is doing a line. He seems happy to see us. He tries convincing us to join him but neither of us is interested. Then, turning to Chottu, he says, ‘So are we doing it tomorrow or not?’