At such moments, Roshni quietly slips into the wardrobe and makes herself comfortable amongst the shirts and ties and T-shirts. Once, when Anmol opened the wardrobe after seeing off a particularly stubborn visitor, he found her fast asleep, her head resting on his blue blazer. She looked so much at peace with herself that Anmol let her be. He left the panels open to let in fresh air.

The interruptions, no matter how brief, are still interruptions. April will draw to a close in a fortnight’s time. Roshni is not sure she is going to be allowed out after her exams have ended. After much thought, Anmol works out a new arrangement with Paritosh. He would lock the two in. The padlock would take care of the casual visitors, leaving the lovebirds free to fuck and hatch plans for the future.

It is seven o’clock in the evening. Anmol and Roshni sit in a darkened room, surrounded by beer bottles filled with urine. Paritosh, who was supposed to turn up at five, is nowhere to be seen. Anmol has spent the last hour, leaning out of his window and calling out to people. He’s sent countless messages but there has been no response. Roshni was expected back home at six. There is going to be trouble, more probing questions. They curse Paritosh, call him names: ‘immature’, ‘juvenile’, ‘irresponsible’.

At about half seven, the two are startled by loud knocking on the door. The knocking halts for a few seconds, then resumes. They stare at the door, spellbound. Could it be Paritosh trying to tell them that he has lost the key? If that were the case, would he not have slipped a note under the door first?

There is more than one person outside. Hammer blows rain down on the padlock. Realization dawns on the innocents: a pack of wolves is trying to blow their house down.

Anmol knows he has very little time. He pulls out a quilt from under his mattress, spreads it out on the floor. He asks Roshni, still in a state of semi-undress, to lie down in the middle. She does as she is told. He rolls up the quilt, pushes the human bedding under his string cot.

Meanwhile, the group of men outside has been making steady progress. The lock gives way, the inside latch rattles in protest, then slides down in surrender. Four men barge into the room. The dean takes control, ‘Somebody put the lights on,’ he screams, knocking over a bottle of urine in his excitement. ‘Mr Hazarika, will you please check the wardrobe? The curtains, Mr Winston, look behind the curtains.’ He occupies the doorway, both feet planted firmly astride, blocking the only avenue for escape.