He had worked up a decent rage by now and decided to direct it towards the pair of shorts that was still lying unexamined in the centre of the room. ‘Ash presented me with these in Bombay,’ explained Bloody. ‘I bloody well know what to do with them now.’ He paused for a few seconds, deciding upon a course of action. ‘I’ll bloody burn them,’ he said, almost screaming. He picked up the offending item of clothing and stormed out of the room. Viya and gang, sensing something was up and not wanting to miss out on their share of fun, trooped out after him and down the gloomy, ill-lit staircase.

Bloody led the small, expectant audience to Rudra Court—a square patch of lawn that lay between two hostel blocks. In the afternoons, the space was hijacked by burly American evangelists who sliced bricks with their bare hands and boasted of personal one-on-ones with Jesus. Tonight, it was time for a demonstration of a different kind. Bloody stood in the middle of the lawn, the shorts held aloft like a Mr Universe trophy, the Clipper in his other hand ready to fire. ‘Guys, Ash and I are history,’ said Bloody with an air of finality. Without further ado, he set the shorts alight.

Viya’s stoned gang stood around Bloody and watched the flames. From the sky, they must have looked like a bunch of peasants taking part in a medieval harvesting ritual. Or a group of courtiers hatching a conspiracy to overthrow a tyrant king. To the chowkidar sitting at Rudra Gate, it just looked terribly fishy and he came charging down the pathway, blowing his whistle, banging his stick on the ground. The racket he was making gave the group enough time to flee. The chowkidar contemplated the half-burnt shorts, then set off in the direction of the principal’s residence, the lathi tucked under his armpit like an umbrella.

Bloody lay in his bed, listlessly playing with a sealed envelope. His eyes though were somewhere else. They were focussed on two fat brown lizards out hunting on the room’s ceiling. They would stalk out prey—a tiny winged insect or dull-coloured, restful moths—then lie in wait patiently. Choosing the right moment, the mini-beast slithered in for the kill, deftly trapping the clueless bug in its miniature jaws. It then sat there, not blinking, not moving, sucking the insect dry in an efficient manoeuvre Bloody liked to call the Terminal Munch.

After a while, Bloody tired of the lizards and turned his attention to the white envelope in his hand. On certain days of the week, the newspapers carried small, boxed ads for friendship clubs. The advertisements featured three or four numbers printed over a blonde’s smiling face. One of the first things he’d done on his return from Calcutta that morning was to call one of these numbers.