When the search fails to yield any result, the dean decides it’s time he dirtied his hands. He gathers Anmol by the collar and slaps him a few times across the face. ‘Where is she?’ he screams, shaking him violently. Anmol is too frightened to say anything. He doesn’t need to say anything. The dean is on his knees by now, peering under the bed. He contemplates the rolled up quilt for a few seconds as if it is a time bomb waiting to explode, then turns to the warden, Hazarika. ‘Pull this out,’ he growls, ‘pull this out right now.’ Hazarika promptly falls to his knees and does as he is told. He sets about his task with the enthusiasm of a boy opening a birthday present. He impatiently pushes the folds aside. The Dean watches on—the proud father.

Roshni looks strangely rested. Abandoned by her mother as a baby, she has spent her growing years wrapped in this bundle. She has floated down many looping rivers, yet, till today, till this very minute, no one has ever found her, bothered her.

The three men crowd around her in a semi-circle, a triumphant look on their faces. They are naturalists who have stumbled upon a specimen of a species long thought to be extinct. Now they cannot contain their excitement.

Roshni lies on her back, naked, gazing up at them. They can’t tear their eyes away from her breasts.

But something else, something very strange is taking place. Gradually, with each passing moment, the men’s faces have begun to acquire feminine features. They throw their heads back and laugh loudly. Eunuchs dance around Roshni, clap their hands. One of them wields a razor-sharp kitchen knife, its steel blade glinting and gleaming in the night.

‘Please,’ begs Roshni, ‘please don’t do this to me. I am not what you think I am.’ She shuts her eyes and asks for Anmol.

Nobody Wants to Eat My Mangoes

Alok was standing on platform 2 of Churchgate station, waiting for his train to arrive. It was three minutes late.

The mid-summer evening was typically humid. Little droplets of sweat covered his forehead, neck and arms, forming a rash of translucent boils. It was rush hour and the station was packed to capacity. Trains arrived and left at regular intervals. Grim-faced Bombayites jumped on, jumped off, stumbled, slipped, ran, grumbled, smiled, sat down on benches sponsored by soft drink companies.

There were young girls in synthetic sleeveless tops, middle-aged businessmen in grey or brown safari suits, plump working women in knee-length skirts, advertising copywriters in meagre ponytails, office-goers in regulation polyester shirt-pant.